Having everything, that anyone ever does want.
A big loving family,
Not many, but true friends,
A house dipped in peace.
Yet, coming home, it hurts. It hurts when there is no one to greet, except the wind chimes that break the silence.
I know they are there, and will always be.
Yet, this emptiness never lets me free.
Does this make sense, or does it not?
I wish I could explain, if i got it all.
It hurts, when the heart is more vacant than the rooms.
Yet, out the window, the mango flower blooms.
The nightingale sings.
And makes me wish, the privilege of hers, to have those wings.
When the voices yell, deep and dark,
The terror turns, frighteningly stark.
The cause of the anxiety, that I could never find.
Its as if the darkness had truly, made me blind.
Will I ever get out, or will I not?
Does it get better, or does it not?
©swastika14
S