The obligation of words can be so tiring.
To explain my thoughts and feelings
and serve it to you with my soul as the garnish.
Yet they are consumed without a second thought.
Never enough since you are still waiting for the real meal.
Would you know?
If I gave up...
Would you understand?
The thin ice of civility
we glide across
can only serve to
mask the torrential sea underneath.
Is it enough to be polite
or will I grow old when I'm dead?
The tears were orange
and yet I still believed.
The whimpers were obnoxious
but I still trusted.
The cries of anguish did not echo
and then I knew.
I cover myself and my shoulders shake.
How can I ask for help when I need to ask forgiveness
for making you look at my face?
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