They ask how you are doing.
"I'm well" you say.
They nod respectfully
without questioning the
sincerity of your response.
They could never imagine the
sad sonnets you compose
each night with a pen in
your left hand;
a smoke in your right.
They cannot conceive the
idea of you crying at 3 a.m.
or the forlorn longing that
you have for home.
They would not fathom the
way you yearn to kill yourself,
with nicotine because really,
there's nothing left to do.
They asked how you are doing.
"I'm well" is what you said.
So they just cannot
envision your pain in their

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