Awakening

Why am I here?
They ask me what I mean, and I speak,
but my speech has no meaning,
and they give it no value.

Who am I to speak?
I know no one, am no one,
and can make no list of glories,
and they know this better than me.

I have all the people in the world around me,
but no one to listen to me and crave me,
and I cannot understand their language,
and they say I have none.

Why can't I cry?
They deny me even that comfort,
and I am desperate for bitterness and rage,
and they scorn that I could imagine aposiopesis.

Why can't I have solitude?
Information everywhere and too much to do and no time and no space,
and people suffering with no advocate,
and they would mock the day I betrayed them with silence.

I have all the words in the world waiting on the cusp of my lips,
but no one to listen to me and crave me,
and I do not speak their language,
and they will not let me simply be.

I am afraid of my awakening,
And they tell me I will not have one,
But I know how it will come—
They will not see as I slip from knowing to believing.