Why is it so hard for us, the misfits,
the ones who don’t dare to talk?
The quiet ones lost in glances and exchanged
silences.
I tell you this, may reality not fool you: It’s not our fault.
It’s this world’s, the bitter competition.
It doesn’t regard the weak, the
tender-hearted,
the small voices that are kept quiet because
they’re different.
The others. Them who can talk, who can
dance and not look our way,
they lie to us. They say it’s us who don’t
dare.
But communication seems so easy;
yet truth is, it’s vain; banal. It barely scratches
the surface.
We don’t need to meet other people to talk
to them. Which would be easier,
But it becomes about image, who we seem to
are, how happy we pretend to be.
But the right time comes; when
that furtive “hello” arrives, and there’s no answer.
We cannot lie to ourselves. Even
if we barricade our emotions;
our faces behind a screen, we are
still that quiet kid in the corner who doesn’t dare to talk.
We’re judged, belittled. How creative we are.
But
the crushing reality is that we are still scared.
We are in that sole performance, that will never repeat itself: we won’t get a second chance.
Our
reach for help.
Our scream,
keeps to be unheard,
unread,
unanswered
but what’s
more painful it is
seen.
No time for small talk.
No time to care.
No
time to dare.
It seems so precious,
but so wasted.
We have no other choice but to yell.
To
give the world this anger,
this solitude that became our fortress.
And attack.
Give it all in living colours,
in sincere smiles,
in art.
