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Tonight I Cried
Tonight I cried.
The silence after giving was louder than my music ever dared to be.
Six cards, six names—none turned toward me.
I asked why. The void answered with its back.
Tonight I walked into the open like a soldier with no armor.
The wind was a warning. The world—cold, familiar.
I pulled my hood like a curtain on a play no one watched,
and met the only warmth in the arms of the dark.
Tonight I mourned the dream they stole.
The boy who wanted to be heard, not hunted.
I wept for melodies silenced before their chorus.
For innocence—buried beneath their scorn.
Tonight I swallowed the fire and named it resilience.
Do I burn for thirty more years, pretending it fuels me?
Or do I smolder silently while Hell writes sonnets
on the walls of my chest?
Tonight I stood. Shaking. Stubborn.
Each tear a blade carving poems into stone.
You hate me? Fine. Then fear this:
I survived you.
Tonight I saluted your damnation
with a spine forged in grief.
Let your indifference rot in its own echo—
I will still create.
Tonight I cried.
But tomorrow,
I sing.
Copyright ©
Michael Fulkerson
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