I've always had a strange sort of sadness in me.
A deep-rooted ache,
A dull-edged strain of melancholy.

Those around cast glances my way
when I fail to shed tears
over the events of the day.
Over the comings and goings,
the commonplace tragedies,
the lives and the deaths.
They don't understand the sorrow
of sunrises and sunsets.

Its the thoughts of unknown
that gnaw at my heart.
It's the ideas I can touch,
but not feel,
that set me apart.

For I envy those whose tears
flow fast and free
as a clear mountain spring
emptying into a mutual sea.
Instead I walk the shores of a fathomless lake,
averting my gaze from the depths
of black and blue,
if only for my sanity's sake.

Perhaps one day a lone soul will find me,
having stumbled upon my personal sea,
and together, with dry eyes and heavy hearts,
we'll drown in this unspoken misery.