This level of melancholy, hanging in my weary eyes,
Its not so easy to survive when you’re breathless.
Surroundings feel like being in a vacuum box,
Filled with all toxic faces, slamming and crushing your highs.
Trapped too inside your mind, too much on the internet,
Too much food inside your belly, too much maturity?
Why don’t you listen to me, don’t you think I’m something?
You’re too little you don’t know the world,
You think of yourself very highly.
This world is a strange place, and I agree.
Maybe one day I will be somebody,
Somebody in this world who feels belonged and mattered.
This isn’t reality but the hopes of my delusions,
That I will make it happen.
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Author:
mirrorball (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: July 12th, 2026 09:15
- Comment from author about the poem: Writing after so long. I feel so trapped and unsure. I loved writing this because it came naturally. I've stopped journaling or any type of writing of that sort, i cannot finish writing a single page of my book. This poem can be interpreted differently, but for me I think the poem becomes richer when you recognize it's a conversation or rather, a lifetime of voices echoing inside someone's head. It's melancholy, yes, but beneath that it's about something more universal: the uncertainty of becoming. I'm not broken, defeated or victorious. I'm simply at that uncomfortable point where I can't tell whether I'm nurturing a future or clinging to an illusion.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Online)
Comments2
For what is someone profited, if they shall gain the whole world, and lose their soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?
Thank you for sharing this. It gives the poem another perspective that I hadn't considered.
Farewell in your quest!
When do delusions become hopes or fears and then reality? Nicely penned it takes one into a world that can be real if one makes it so.
Thanks for reading.
I'm hoping them to become a reality
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