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Poem

When I say "fine," it's a cloak for the storm,
A veneer of calm that I carefully form.
Behind the calm words, there's a tempest of doubt,
A façade that shields what I’m truly about.

Fine is the mask I wear to keep peace,
A way to assure that my troubles will cease.
But inside the veil, there's a tumultuous sea,
Where my heart's deepest questions churn silently.

Fine is the word that hides what's unspoken,
A subtle disguise for the feelings that’re broken.
It's the smile that falters, the laughter that wanes,
The cracks in the surface where sorrow remains.

When I say "fine," it's not truly the truth,
It's a sheltering lie from my days of youth.
It’s the quiet retreat when the pain starts to show,
A way to keep others from truly knowing.

Fine is a refuge where I hide from the light,
A word that deflects from my struggle and fight.
It’s the surface of calm where deep shadows dwell,
An echo of what I’m too shy to tell.

So when I say "fine," read between the lines,
It’s not just the surface, it’s where silence aligns.
For "fine" often means that the heart’s not at rest,
A hint of the struggle beneath the façade dressed.

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