This World Is Alien

This world is alien to me.

But warm.

Soft.

As long as I don't think too much about what it had to do to get here.

What it's been put through.

The other worlds must look over and smile pitifully.

I remember when they'd laugh along and smile and say

'There's nothing you can't do'.

Obviously they were lying.

Or they believed they were.

They believed I couldn't hear.

I could,

I heard them say you're losing your smile,

That it's hollow like your eyes.

But you created all of this and you can't see what that means.

I wish you could.

For you.

Not me.

Another restless Sun rising.

Don't the bluebells look elegant today?

I know they're looking down

I know.

But think of what they've achieved just by growing.

Just by existing and

Surviving this.

You don't care anymore though.

You're too busy looking at the chipped walls and unfinished dinner on your plate whilst thinking of all the 'would-be's that plague your less-than-sufficient sleepless nights.

This is a poor world.