Shattered Breath


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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