The River

Hey you, who were born with hypersensitivity, have been drifting in the river, feeling no courage to drag yourself out. But you don't enjoy that deep depression. No one does. And you never tease with your sadness. No one should. You wished all sensitive hearts deserve tender careness, although you dared not to long for, and regreted to have believed. Sentiments followed you anywhere, no matter how hard you pretended not to see them just be aside. You tired to confide, or confess, while being afraid they've scared your beloved. When you dried up all your fake merriness, and the last exhausted hope, you bared yourself in the horrible helplessness, feeling cold. Lying wide awake in the dark, you shouted silently to dirve away the fear, in vain. Then you labored an ambivalent look at the dying past, wondering if you've made too much fuss out your little empty life. You know you'd prefer never having been brought here. 'Coz on this planet lived someone, in whose heart lived your heart... And the story drowned, in the river you cried for him.