By Anonymous

O so wanting,
O so wanting.
Of that which I’ve never had.

Those things possessed by the ones I admire.
That in acquiring,
I might regard myself with equal praise.

If only that were me,
If only that were me.
But alas it is not me.

And O how the heart aches,
Deprived of that which it never had.
And I can only wonder.

My only wonder,
Is how the heart can so survive,
Being so terribly jealous of those it loves.

When the silent scream of saints speak,
Speak that love and envy far from correspond.
No barren battering of war could exceed the conflict of conscience.

If only that were me,
But alas it is not me.
But it can be.

O so wanting.
Of that which I’ve never had.
But despite depression,
That does not mean I never will.