poetry

We are the moody, doomed to misunderstanding, always accused of arrogance, because we are silent, we who do not resort to anyone when we feel sad and self-medicate. We are the morning lovers of the evening. We choose half of the light and dimming. We who thought that when we drown; We will die, we drowned in art, and because of this drowning: we survived. We get more mature with pain, not with the passage of time. We do not arrange the places of people in our hearts, their actions take over.
We are the only ones; we only meet in the pages of a black writer who knows about loneliness. We are the sons of grief of “Franz Kafka”, the philosophy of “Nietzsche”, depression of “Dostoevsky” and the absurdity of “Albert Camus”. We are all the sad writings written by unknown writers who were suffering from loneliness and sadness. We are sad by a musician who committed suicide from depression. We are the lines that Van Gogh drew with a shivering hand before he committed suicide. The last words of “Sylvia Platz” before her suicide and the last tremor of “Gandhi” before he was assassinated. We are the owners of the sad murals in alleys and dialogues, inhabited by the poor slums of love decorated with lies and hypocrisy, we are the ones who descended from everyone who was suffering from syndromes of fear and disorders of depression. We are those who sit in the last classes in the lectures no one notices our existence and no one cares about our absence. We are friends of the night, sadness and depression. We are the ones that no one knows about, and no matter how close anyone approaches us, they will have a little about us. We are the only ones who have no one to cry with about trivial things before the important ones, we are those who are accustomed to loss, pain and soreness, who suffer for children crying, and we may cry to see a sad scene in a movie, we are the ones who have no reasons for our actions and We do not know how to justify it or even defend ourselves. Those who are accustomed to staying up late for no apparent reason, who do not have any justification for contemplating the ceiling, in the sky, in following up the forms of stars, and we may create from cloud companions. We are the owners of antique brains that are sedatives that fail to remain, those who are irritable by a passing word, those with ever-changing moods, crying spells, and sudden sadness. We are the ones who do not care about themselves, and we no longer care about anyone’s matter. We are the owners of existential questions that are unanswered. Those who used to keep silent in the most severe situations that call for conversation. We are the ones whose words are never taken seriously. We are the ones who create arguments to apologize from attending parties and gatherings, we are everyone’s friends but have no friend, those who have made music as a companion. We are the people who walk in the streets at the time of rain, those who weep in their room in the evening and wake up in the morning as if they had not cried for hours, we are the ones who have not sent messages, and the pain that cannot be uttered, and with the wishes that were not fulfilled. We are the only ones who are fake in front of people, who are honest in front of themselves, we are the ones who only have broken hearts and broken dreams and wishes. We are forgotten, but do not forget, the agonized, who are unable to hurt anyone, and the peaceful ones, some have assaulted our feelings without a reaction from us. We are the only ones in everything, in our solitude, in our moments of depression, and no one knows about our pain, we are the ones who cry in silence and suffer in silence. We are the moody with the curse of details, obsessive-compulsive disorder, syndromes of fear, closeness and concern, we are the unheard screams of pain and hidden tremors of sadness, we who never meet but know each other, we gather in sadness, depression, calmness and complete darkness, amid the crowd.