The world feeds on tragedy, with an insatiable hunger for misfortune
The world feeds on tragedy, with an insatiable hunger for misfortune,
They demand confessions, not out of care, but to dissect and devour the soul,
When I reveal my pain, their eyes become glassy with disgust,
And their pity drips like acid on my open and bleeding wounds.
Perhaps that's why I've made my sadness a "nameless grave,"
A place I visit alone, away from prying eyes,
Where no one can turn my pain into a fleeting spectacle,
Where silence weaves veils over memories and unshed tears.
There, in the dark silence, I bury my sufferings one by one,
Away from eyes that wish to turn my story into a show,
I have found a sanctuary where the echoes of pain are my silent confidants,
And only shadows keep me company in this dance of lost souls.
It is a place where I can breathe without feeling the weight of curious gazes,
A space where pain is not a phenomenon but a part of me,
A corner of the world where silence whispers solace and secrets,
And where, ultimately, I learn to embrace my own darkness.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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