It is with deep regret and sorrow,
Plagued by worthless woe,
That I write these words to none but myself.
Convinced that my convictions are dormant,
I lay awake at night full of contemplation.
Should I complain as always?
Or, should I consider an alternative?
My complaining seems an exercise in futility.
I seem alone in my complaint.
The others remain silent.
They have no voices.
They are not heard.
Thus, I seem to stand out.
My speaking up leads to no peace.
Victory eludes me somehow.
Thus, I reckon with my tormented soul
And I relinquish my formal complaint.
I offer my solemn submission.
I end up among the silent.
I find myself willing to abide with the voiceless.
I, too, have lost any consideration of complaint.
I submit in silence.