I have sat,
for how many nights I am uncertain,
Silently alone.
It is not this isolation which bears the burden of my thoughts,
but my mind of these solitary moments.
It is an odd feeling
to know one is not the sole bearer of
what is plaguing my being.
It is of no importance.
It gives no relief.
I do attempt to think cohesively,
judging my circumstances objectively,
as I know my father can do.
Mask emotion in logic.
It gives no relief.
I am victim to what I can see plainly,
not in just myself, but of many around me.
The forced joy is loathsome.

I am not blind to the position I am helpless to place myself in,
though I am vigorous in explaining the justice to others,
and in turn to myself.
It gives no relief.
No feigned happiness has lasted,
Nor spread,
Nor helped.
I know all this, but I know nothing.
All I can accept is what I have distinguished to be wrong.
All I can change is the intensity in which I salvage what I am able.
So I sit here,
Silently alone,
knowing the inevitable is approaching,
and, still,
it gives no relief.