W O R D S

T O R R I D

One have been tired for the longest time,
Existing in a longitudinal echoes of silence,
That moves so perfectly still along the thread,
That it barely leaves a mark on my skin.

The pain and the suffering that I carry,
Are so well etched on the inside,
That when people look into my direction,
A mirage of a perfectly sculpted porcelain doll,
Is what greeted their sight.

Always so careful, always so cautious,
That at the mere stain from the spillage of the insides,
I quickly wash it away and stitch it up,
Before it reeks more damage,
Attracting attention of those watchful eyes.

I have lived so still, so quiet,
Ensuring that every step I take forward,
Does not leave any traceable footprints behind.

It is important, oh very important,
That I maintain this façade and continue masquerading,
Within this ballroom of the great society,
If I wanted to ensure my survivability.

Here, everyone is wearing a mask, everyone.
In a way, we are all so similar, yet so distinct,
Perhaps, some are just more transparent of who they are,
While some choose to dance with the shadows,
Prefer to remain unseen.

What most don't understand is that -
It is completely acceptable to choose to be invisible,
Not every soul wants to be discovered,
Not every soul wants to be understood,
Perhaps all they wanted was to carry,
What is left of them and exist peacefully.

Life has already leave one very dry and parch,
Spending the remainder of what's left
Quenching the thirst alone maybe ideal after all
Perhaps it will allow the wretched soul some time
To mend on its own, without any interference,
Perhaps that is all that is needed.

Not everyone wants to live life to the fullest,
Or is chasing after happiness.
Some just hope that they can capture themselves,
as quickly as they fall apart,
before they make a scene in the middle of the ballroom,
and leaves behind an irreversible damage.

It is beautiful in a way,
To be the only person aware of my suffering,
Not everything has to be made known,
Some secrets should be carried with you to your grave,
And be safely buried there where it can no longer escape,
For you now begin the process of ceasing to exist.

Perhaps then, the weight on my shoulders will be lifted,
For I have gained my wings,
And free of the burden that was once bared by me,
Perhaps then,
I will eventually for once be able to breathe,
Believing that I am no longer a burden. 

N A M M
21-06-20 / 2311