Your shout echoes across the oceans,

Whipped away by the raging winds,

So that it never graces their ears.

All that is left behind is a spectre of who you want to be,

But who you fear you will never become.

You exist on an overcrowded planet in the endlessness of space,

Insignificant and loud in your thoughts, but silent in your words.

Maybe they can’t hear you,

Or maybe they choose not to.

Nothing seems wrong with you,

For it’s all bottled up on the inside,

Locked away until further notice,

Or until the dam finally bursts.

You let it go in the quiet of your loneliness,

Only to patch it up soon after so nobody sees.

For your song on this blustering, desolate planet is only significant,

If someone cares enough to stop and listen.