Sadness Poem by Achim Wollscheid

I keep it in my pocket, so to speak,
this uncomprehensible sadness,
or rather sense of weakness and inability.
I don't want to get up,
don't want to sit down and write,
don't want to do anything
because I know I can't do things right.
I just call it sadness to keep it simple.

And you know, tears don't trickle down my face,
my eyes aren't becoming red and puffy,
but believe me, I am crying.
Something inside of me is asking for a tissue
to blow its horribly pink nose.
There is something inside of me begging for a hug,
but if you were to see me you wouldn't think so.
You'd just think I was bored.
I'd just say 'yeah, you're right'.