All these people walk around me in circles. They have no point, they cannot see, they can't possibly understand. With each step and twirl my stomach churns at the thought of happiness; how could something so good turn so sour?

My friends ask what is wrong and I answer with a general response.

I'm tired.

I'm just out of it.

I didn't eat this morning.

I laugh and join in, relishing in the idea of feelings; forgetting for a moment my pain.

But in my loneliness I scream and cry, and yet you turn from me. You left me to fend for myself against the ravaged beasts of the world.

I thought I was entitled to happiness as a human being, but now I see that isn't so. I am not entitled to anything but my own demise; after all, the fall of man is the only thing he will ever amount to.

These tears of pain run down my leg to bring fleeting clarity. What is the meaning of what I have lost?

Will I ever understand?

Will I ever move on?

Will I find the reason for your silence?

I ask these things to you, myself. I ask your brown eyes of darkness, your tears of agony, and your lips of heresy.

I call and you do not answer. All I ask is for a reply.

Tell me what you want.

I will wait for thee every Sunday at three by the niche of my favorite tree.