At the age when I should have been carrying a backpack full of dreams and deadlines
At the age when I should have been carrying a backpack full of dreams and deadlines,
I carry insomnia stitched under my eyes like war medals for which no one applauds,
They tell me "it's just a phase," but what if it's actually the story of my life?
What if this is all I'll ever have, a sky of anxieties and broken hopes?
I was told to stand still in storms, to face them with courage and strength,
But the sky keeps screaming, and the lightning seems to know my name,
Whenever I seek shelter, the umbrella turns into rusty knives,
And I bleed from places I thought long healed and forgotten,
I am weird, too weird to be loved properly and ever understood,
Too quiet to be deciphered, but too loud inside to sleep,
And I don't understand myself either, as much as I'd like to, I'm a mystery refusing to unfold,
I pretend that the stares don't cut, but every glance is a scalpel on my skin,
Every word is a drop of salt on open wounds that will not close,
So I vanish, I distance myself, not out of peace, but from an instinct of survival,
Because if they knew what resides within me, they'd leave quicker than they came,
And I remain here, a wandering soul, oscillating between silence and a scream,
Between the desire to be understood and the fear of being completely revealed to the world.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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