Regardless of when, where does this all end?

Living with an autoimmune disease both outside and within.

Voices tell me to pick up the pen.

“Don’t listen to them,” warns the opposing side.

There’s so many reasons to keep it inside.

Fears plead with me to hide.

Besides, what’s the point in speaking up anyways?

It’s not like anyone’s really listening.

We’ve even stopped pretending.

Isolated islands of insulated pain;

We’d rather bemoan our tragedies than recognize our pain.

What a shame—Though I understand it in the same vein.

So hurt from being misunderstood that you forget about the possibility of good.

Anchored down by all the ‘shoulds’ governing daily life.

What’s the point if there’s a never-ending price?

I suppose the appreciation of those things that constitute what is nice.

I suppose that’s right.

An unfamiliar phrase in a dizzyingly lost age,

Dysregulated by years of suppressed rage,

Manifesting in eruptions in underground caves.

What’s the saying about not making too many waves?

Then again, I guess there’s also the one saying not to sink but to swim;

And another suggesting to let things go in order to go with the flow.

But, I don’t know.

It seems suspicious that others keep saying such things to the point of becoming ingrained.

It’s almost as if there exists a concerted effort to distort my mind.

Serving to keep me distracted while I waste away time.

I think that must be right.

My internal fright transformed into a feeling of might,

Enticing an inner will to fight and disregard with being polite.

Now, this conclusion excites;

Therefore, it must be right.