a subtle kind of fear,
a subtle kind of insanity
hidden beneath a lifetime of masks.
there are cries of a wasted, forgotten beings
being muffled by the world.
what is left is just blood—
blood and broken poems,
and broken minds.
the walls are trembling and bleeding out,
as i tried to set free of all the burdens i've been carrying
by knocking the doors of heaven down
one poem at a time.
yet there is a normalcy of being wounded,
because we are perplexed by gentleness and tender beings.
silence is a shattered glass you carry within
as it became the craved intimacy.
but oh, how unfortunate
that not many hearts can see
there is a resonate grace in wreckage,
how unfortunate.
if only they are willing to go in.
if only they are willing to stay...
—C.L.
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