The Inexpressible Me

They call me ‘Inexpressible’. Yes, I am.
I don’t know how to express those little feelings that kill me inside,
sometimes ,heal my wounds faster,
or make me run wild.
They call me ‘Inexpressible’.
I laugh violently. Ask my mirror
like my pillow, he witnesses every single tear that falls from my eyes.
He never complains.
Oh, lord! That time is really painful.
Still, they call me ‘Inexpressible’.
My pillow is lovesick.
He never expects but
surprises always await him.
Apart from daily goodnight hugs,
I hug him, when I cry.
Yes, when I cry, like all other.
He never soaks but always has been loyal
as he silently hides my tears deep beneath.
Still ,they call me ‘Inexpressible’.
The broken vases, torn bed sheets know
how badly I cry,
When anger and failure
mercilessly kill my soul.
They are there
and console me; the Inexpressible me.
The door slammed stands strong,
even those four walls never complain,
the crushed pages
know the fury of my anger.
They cry when I do.
I hear my echo beneath my bed.
My shadow shivers;
And, they call me ‘the Inexpressible’.

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