Will you watch when I weep? Wondering to yourself why my eyes do not blink as I cry to sleep in silence.
Each tear drop tells a story that cannot be sung to little children at night.
Nightmares plague my soul; so much so I have come to know no respite. My plight is my pain, carved onto my hands, familiar like my own name, familiar like the warmth of a home long forgotten.
Forgotten like a game of whispers played in a noisy market, where sad smiles are sold on stands of reality. And the truth is bottled like liquor and labelled “not to be sold to people below 21”.
I wish I was a child again. Roaming the markets of life, my dusty feet oblivious to the roads of hard tar that must be travelled, that bottle of truth yet untasted, that song of sin still unsung.
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