Some Old Books and A Poetry

I discovered a thing I’d never expected would be this hard for me; extroverts can never really understands introverts’ darkest fears.

Have you ever been in a gathering with an uncomfortable atmosphere that made you never able to suits yourself in a gap among your friends?

Have you ever hardly hold back the rumbling anger in your heart while they’re squabbling over a thing that never really important at all?

Have you ever been so sick of the crowd, that you need a place to be alone, but still smilin’ and chillin’ by the sound of their laughter?

Have you ever feel so tired by those inside jokes they repeatedly laughed to over and over and over again that you rather choose to make a small talks with your own mind?

Have you ever avoid the middle of a room, hiding behind the euphoria, stick closely to the walls. And that made you feel so relieved as hell.

Have you ever feel really at ease when you pour your heart out into some paragraph in your notebook while your friends are playing around with things you don’t really into.

Have you ever need to spend that time into a deep-talk, but instead of listening, they shout, “Ah, it’s just your imagination.”

Have you ever been so depressed that you really need to cry it out in someone’s shoulder but you’re pretty sure they would never understand. You, therefore, hold it back. Again.

No. I didn’t feel numb. I didn’t feel ignored. That’s the only way I found myself respected. Rather than being rejected several times.

You push me to swinging swiftly into your world. But, did you ever just trying to reach my world? Did you ever think of it?

However, they're just a pack of old books I could never understand.

Read that again. Yes. You’re a pack of old books I could never understand. And me, a complicated little poetry you could never understand.