Breathe and Cry

Why is the wind at twilight
Colder than the breeze of the morning?
Why are there no arms around
When I need someone to hold me?
Why does it seem
That their concerns are all phoney?
Why do they turn their heads
In the moments I am falling,
And give me an icy shoulder
As the wind comes back coldly?
Why am I a natural disaster
Whose fates blamed on chance,
Although circumstance is a reply
To the questions I have asked?
Why is inner beauty never seen as that,
Although outer beauty’s as see through as glass?
Why are my problems of today
Always blamed on the past?
It’s like no one else sees this
As a frivolous task.
Why does this wind come back
When I’m struggling to gasp,
Taking with it this fickle hope
That I’ve kept as my last?
Why is it,
And why can’t I understand,
Why the most important points
Are the hardest ones to grasp?
And why can I only breathe and cry
When the morning breeze has passed?