My writing hides in the shallow but deep,
The silent but screaming,
The foreign familiarity
Of my thoughts.

This is not the homeland,
Unknown to one who ponders over the silly things,
The petty things;
The things that don't really matter in the long run.

This country of thoughts,
It's Capitol is Why?
"Why am I here?
Why do I stay?
Why can't I go?"

The neighboring cities are
What?
When?
How?

What is the point?
When will this end?
How can I accept anymore?

They see these thoughts as suicidal,
Recognition visits me.
He tells me that this is futile,
And defines selfish.

These creations of Adam's gift,
These ponderings are visitors of that place, too.
Almost native.
Almost.

This is the end.
But my writing never ends,
It's still shallow but deep,
Silently screaming,
Foreign in the most familiar way,
Hiding in my mind.