Note: We are human and we make mistakes, but sometimes we nibble at the tiny ones and ignore the big things that surround us. These smallest faults can cost us everything—quarrels, divorces, suicides. This poem speaks of suffering between a husband and wife who misunderstand each other. The misunderstanding is born from not knowing who they truly are. Sharing and trust matter if we are to avoid a broken heart. This poem reflects what I feel and what I have seen over the fences.
My tears roll onto this page
because I have no choice.
A sorrow overflows unceasingly—
so painful to bear.
My life is thwarted,
lacerated,
torn apart.
I am living only to die.
I cannot change.
Only you can.
The dark lines will remain—
this faded excitement,
this dimmed view,
this dullness.
I cannot see.
Why can't I?
What have I done?
Was I so unlike myself?
Can you not cry
seeing me fall?
Have I wronged you?
My many wrongs
have been shattered by your one wrong.
You separated me.
This one is brutal—
it has destroyed me.
Now I drink my own tears,
drinking to make them stop,
but they keep flowing,
carving rivers down my face.
I am fickle, lost, nervous,
lifeless, oblivious,
making enemies of my own feelings.
I blame this. I curse it.
Is this my destiny?
Why am I here?
Why did I come?
I don't know anymore.
I am pointless now,
wandering a bewildered street,
drifting toward dreary, empty places.
Without your love,
I wander like a ghost,
kicking bricks,
punching crumbling walls.
I don't feel the pain.
I tear my skin red.
I run back and forth,
screaming inside—
what place is this?
People pass by.
I drift through the crowds.
No one glances at me.
No one notices what is next to them.
I am alone in the masses.
I feel this because you made me alone.
My feet carry on,
and the aches carry on.
Days scratch me raw.
I try to focus, but it's useless.
This world of charms and joys—
it belongs to others, not to me.
I am far from the magic of living,
stuck in a corner of misery.
Depression hovers over me like fog,
thick with reasons why
we should never have been separated.
What will happen to our children?
What will happen to the trust of our relatives?
To you and me—
our meetings, our memories,
our attachments, our affections—
every detail will slowly be killed.
Now those relationships crush me.
I was so attached.
I call out, howling,
throwing myself on the floor.
Love is killing me.
My skull is breaking.
Why is life cracking like this?
Why was life made this way?
I didn't create this situation.
No one planned this.
It is a movie,
and it has reached its cruel climax—
to lay myself down,
buried,
dying like a wounded cat,
freeing myself from everyone's care and burden.
Because I have always been a poor man.
I was never meant to be well-off.
I was never suited to be a husband or a father.
I was never made to love.
Let me lie down now.
A broken man has no heart left to give.
Let no one disturb this ruined corpse.
What sin did I commit?
The offense of loving?
The sin of giving care that was never returned?
The fault of fathering children?
The failure of keeping silent?
Everything happens in life—
but not in love!
I am dead from my sins.
These sins drive me mad.
Let me be punished if I have wronged you.
But don't you see—these are our sins?
Don't you understand—this is our life?
I listen to how others live.
They speak of interference, obstacles, rebukes—
all parts of life.
Each person has limited love,
further bound by their children.
Yet they stay together.
They know each other.
You said, and I said, that we have
sharing, understanding—that we can grow again.
But slowly, you must know me,
and I must know you.
Who am I?
Who are you?
Where did we go wrong?
I never truly knew you or myself.
That is where we failed.
A person must be sensible, no matter what.
Sense is a matter of reality.
We cannot live a poetic life—
all people are pulled down to the grave.
Now I have a mind again,
and I feel I cannot go on.
It is unbearable to live without you.
The distance I keep now—
is it the distance of a million years?
The gap between us,
the gap between our children—
is it just a shadow's width?
No. The gap is a mountain of shadow.
As you wished,
as you wanted me to leave—
this distance, this gap,
these spaces and mountains between us—
they are unbearable.
When you spoke those wavering words,
when your father told me to get a divorce,
I did what you wanted.
I asked for what I needed,
but you could not give it.
For the love of you,
I gave everything.
I am a nag. Yes, I nag.
But now, here I am—crying.
I cry.
The songs I hear turn into tears.
The room I live in drowns me.
I am being crushed
between two walls.
I am bleeding.
My blood is nothing but tears.
Our children are crying too.
You may be crying as well.
Our children might be longing for sweets.
What made you cry?
Here I am, sleepless night after night,
tossing and turning,
glimpsing at the memories—
the incidents we created together,
now buried underground.
They rise up vividly on the walls.
You may say, "I am different from others."
We are different.
But we are bound by one thing—
an unbreakable love.
My tears roll onto this page
because I have no choice.
A sorrow overflows unceasingly—
so painful to bear.
My life is thwarted,
lacerated,
torn apart.
I am living only to die.
I cannot change.
Only you can.
The dark lines will remain—
this faded excitement,
this dimmed view,
this dullness.
I cannot see.
Why can't I?
What have I done?
Was I so unlike myself?
Can you not cry
seeing me fall?
Have I wronged you?
My many wrongs
have been shattered by your one wrong.
You separated me.
This one is brutal—
it has destroyed me.
Now I drink my own tears,
drinking to make them stop,
but they keep flowing,
carving rivers down my face.
I am fickle, lost, nervous,
lifeless, oblivious,
making enemies of my own feelings.
I blame this. I curse it.
Is this my destiny?
Why am I here?
Why did I come?
I don't know anymore.
I am pointless now,
wandering a bewildered street,
drifting toward dreary, empty places.
Without your love,
I wander like a ghost,
kicking bricks,
punching crumbling walls.
I don't feel the pain.
I tear my skin red.
I run back and forth,
screaming inside—
what place is this?
People pass by.
I drift through the crowds.
No one glances at me.
No one notices what is next to them.
I am alone in the masses.
I feel this because you made me alone.
My feet carry on,
and the aches carry on.
Days scratch me raw.
I try to focus, but it's useless.
This world of charms and joys—
it belongs to others, not to me.
I am far from the magic of living,
stuck in a corner of misery.
Depression hovers over me like fog,
thick with reasons why
we should never have been separated.
What will happen to our children?
What will happen to the trust of our relatives?
To you and me—
our meetings, our memories,
our attachments, our affections—
every detail will slowly be killed.
Now those relationships crush me.
I was so attached.
I call out, howling,
throwing myself on the floor.
Love is killing me.
My skull is breaking.
Why is life cracking like this?
Why was life made this way?
I didn't create this situation.
No one planned this.
It is a movie,
and it has reached its cruel climax—
to lay myself down,
buried,
dying like a wounded cat,
freeing myself from everyone's care and burden.
Because I have always been a poor man.
I was never meant to be well-off.
I was never suited to be a husband or a father.
I was never made to love.
Let me lie down now.
A broken man has no heart left to give.
Let no one disturb this ruined corpse.
What sin did I commit?
The offense of loving?
The sin of giving care that was never returned?
The fault of fathering children?
The failure of keeping silent?
Everything happens in life—
but not in love!
I am dead from my sins.
These sins drive me mad.
Let me be punished if I have wronged you.
But don't you see—these are our sins?
Don't you understand—this is our life?
I listen to how others live.
They speak of interference, obstacles, rebukes—
all parts of life.
Each person has limited love,
further bound by their children.
Yet they stay together.
They know each other.
You said, and I said, that we have
sharing, understanding—that we can grow again.
But slowly, you must know me,
and I must know you.
Who am I?
Who are you?
Where did we go wrong?
I never truly knew you or myself.
That is where we failed.
A person must be sensible, no matter what.
Sense is a matter of reality.
We cannot live a poetic life—
all people are pulled down to the grave.
Now I have a mind again,
and I feel I cannot go on.
It is unbearable to live without you.
The distance I keep now—
is it the distance of a million years?
The gap between us,
the gap between our children—
is it just a shadow's width?
No. The gap is a mountain of shadow.
As you wished,
as you wanted me to leave—
this distance, this gap,
these spaces and mountains between us—
they are unbearable.
When you spoke those wavering words,
when your father told me to get a divorce,
I did what you wanted.
I asked for what I needed,
but you could not give it.
For the love of you,
I gave everything.
I am a nag. Yes, I nag.
But now, here I am—crying.
I cry.
The songs I hear turn into tears.
The room I live in drowns me.
I am being crushed
between two walls.
I am bleeding.
My blood is nothing but tears.
Our children are crying too.
You may be crying as well.
Our children might be longing for sweets.
What made you cry?
Here I am, sleepless night after night,
tossing and turning,
glimpsing at the memories—
the incidents we created together,
now buried underground.
They rise up vividly on the walls.
You may say, "I am different from others."
We are different.
But we are bound by one thing—
an unbreakable love.
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