Life is a paradox, a cruel game we're made to play,
Where to live, we must die a little every day,
And the world around us must be dead to our soul,
For in its callousness, we find no solace or goal.
We drift through the night, seeking a respite,
From a world that feels like an endless fight,
And in the darkness, we find some semblance of peace,
A moment of stillness, where our pain can cease.
But with the dawn, the world awakens anew,
And we must put on a mask, to see us through,
For to be ourselves
is to invite pain and scorn,
To feel like an outsider, a misfit, an unworn.
In sleep, the other is but a distant memory,
And in waking, they're a stranger, a mystery,
A constant reminder of our solitude and fear,
Of a life that feels like it's never really here.
Oh, how deep is the melancholy that we feel,
As we wander through a world that seems unreal,
Longing for something that we can never really grasp,
A sense of purpose, a love that will forever last.
And so we go on, forever caught in this sorrow,
Hoping for a chance at a better tomorrow,
But the world remains indifferent to our plight,
A cold and unfeeling presence, that offers no light.
So we drift on, with heavy hearts and broken dreams,
And try to find some solace in the silent screams,
Of a life that's filled with so much pain and strife,
And yearn for a world that offers a different kind of life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem