"Sir, there seems to be a problem!"
When isn't there?
And yet it is always I who has to care,
only me, who has to wear
these acid tainted burdens.
My skin is scarred - forever, given
that nothing heals before it digs in again.
And always me,
did I mention,
that bears this burden?
I confess my masochistic love for it.
But yet,
it seems a product of my guilt -
some wrong I need to right;
Someone Else's story I need to write.

But when silence is of the essence,
it is me -
the actual 'problematic' is me!
Someone who lacks human sense
and tries to live up others' downs.
Why is everyone around?!

One,
Nothing wrong with me;
Two,
Nothing wrong with me;
Three,
Nothing wrong with me;
Four,
There is nothing wrong with me!
Why cant you let me be
in my own silence for once?

But then annoyance:
First thought, Second thought,
Third, but now don't share a glance.
Reasons given by the world are deadly -
all that makes no sense and is pointless - a medley
of my thoughts that seem to reflect
through your abyss and with you - disconnect.

My love is not out of compulsion,
yet your hate and utter revulsion
at what matters; Your elation
might not matter forever, and I fight to find
what I beseech you to let flow.
Unstop and remove the rust from your mind.
Its stings to hear from another; Feels cold.

But wait. Pause. Hold thy breath,
for once again, there is a problem - life and death
says this paranoid soul.
"The doctor will see you now. Next in line, please hold.".