Written: 10/5/17; Published: 11/1/18

It’s interesting because

I want those deep

conversations past midnight,

and I want that shoulder to cry on,

yet when the first opportunity arises,

I fake a smile and act like 

everything is okay.


I tell myself it’s because

I don’t want to bother everyone with

my simple struggles—that there

are so many people in the world

that have so many problems

that exceed mine exponentially 

so the least I can do is let them

speak instead of me—but

I also I feel as though

it’s because I’m afraid

to show that I am unhappy, too,


because then the image I’ve established

of always having joy would

be shattered with each tear and replaced

with who I truly am, a little of both.

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This poem is part of the “I am a writer” posts and “My works,” which can be found here (writer) and here (works). To see all posts, click here.

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