Blistered Blues
How's an eye supposed to pick a happy hue
from colours blinding them to no end,
from a sight of greys and blues bestrew?
When there's far too much chaos to even comprehend?
How's a hand supposed to pick a calm thread
out of a rope choking them to no end,
to a point one has to battle to just breathe,
to a point when it has gone beyond what can be mend?
How's one to pick out an ethereal euphony
over all the voices deafening them to no end,
when all one can hear are wails of agony,
when one's mind is far too cruel to befriend?
I wish you didn't trivialise someone's last resort,
and ask them to fight against a deluge you haven't drowned in,
not when you could never be their pillar of support,
and not when you will never know an anguish akin.