i cannot have a new post

there are bitter things that only i know
not even you
my confidants
strangely disappearing,
easier than writing
lonelier than crying
more damaging than lying
further away than flying
an alternative to dying
yet we have not lived.
what have we, then,
have we not life?
this is my bitterness,
in a way i wish no one could inquire
nor a commentary
nor a passing condolence.
like birds in spring
one to the other
all together
again, again, again,
flying to a bliss,
a mirth,
a utopia.
leaving me once friends are made.
don't they know i'm still in need?!
yet they know
more so than myself
that no wings can lift this emptiness...
to be filled would be to fly.