Pisaries Creator

You do not make sense.
I said to him, "Why don't you listen to me?
I have many good things to say about you."
He only stared at me,
not saying one word, not giving me 
any clue to how he felt.
I start to think I am inferior.
I thought, "What do I have to do to matter?"
Maybe, rip off my shirt and give it to someone
in great neediness, more than I.
Cut off my hand and offer it to another man
that lost his hand in a tragic accident.
I knew someone with much suffering.
She did not make sense.
I wanted to say, "Why can't I put my tired feet 
into your oversized shoes? Can you tell me this, at least!"
There was silence and it was met with another kind of quiet.
The quiet that sticks, that swells, that urges
no one in its path, for non-communication does not care.
Breathing stops for everyone and bodies break.
Today and tomorrow will not matter.
I said to them, "No one seems to make sense anymore! We have all reached 
points of different madness."
You barely exist in the disfigurement. 
We blend together.
None of us make any sense.