Observations

Observation is my tool,
Of the social values,
Of the beings we call people,
And the blindness they have.

I know myself,
To listen and help others.
To offer my time to others,
As it was on sale.

A sign on my head,
That reads in bold letters,
“I’m here for you,
Anywhere and anytime.”

And at the end of the day,
Those people sleep comfortably,
Knowing that they have talked,
About what was bothering them.

But my evenings are not the same,
All full of loneliness and cowardliness,
Grief-stricken by the fact,
That I cannot help it.

Some days there is gratitude,
At best, there is little.
Other days there is none,
And I would continue in stride.

Then there are days,
Where I want to reach out.
For someone to hold onto,
And they’d confuse me.

Such confusion,
That turns into another depression,
Of when I’ve lost that one,
And in darkness I lie.

Thinking of how cruel,
Life is to me,
In the sense of relating to people,
And the way they relate to me.

Such interest is taken,
Onto the words that I say,
But the meaning of them all,
Is not seen or long forgotten.

Such little purpose I have,
For myself in general,
Because no one is here for me,
And if they are,
They’ll soon be gone.