Is my pain not important enough?
Enough to fill the Atlantic ocean?
Enough to force a mask over the delicacies of my crumbled features?

Who are you to belittle my instinctive fragile state??
Who are you to place a wound upon my heart?
Because believe me,
When the wind shows you false meaning
To an enormous rupture in my heart's broken cavity.

It aches with pain of your rivalry,
But delusions is all you see.

"Attention," it whispers.
"Seeker," it swirls and grumbles

Not more than false depictions to blind human beings

But consequently you can choose your endless void of suffering,

As long as everyone can explain
Your pain with knowledge sense.

*Sciamachy~(n.) A battle against enemies; fighting your shadow