fleurs d'un livre (flowers from a book)

There are things we speak aloud
There are those, we tell
But some are veiled by a cloud of doubt
And are left unsaid
Neither told, nor whispered
For, they just don’t seem to fit 
Suppress them howsoever
They simply do exist
Deny them all, for all you like
Or, bolt them tight inside
Springing from that unknown fissure
They haunt you at the night
They seem so trivial 
And yet how does one ignore
When all seems well 
The way they leave you sore
With time, you learn to live
Numb to the pain they give
Neither here nor there
how you follow, when they lead nowhere
why they happen, we cannot tell
in vain, do we constantly dwell
or is that a way to make us see
why life is such a mystery!!!