of the man in the room.

In the course of tears and screams,

Of unspoken history and broken clocks,

Ticks fractured minutes and remains of the truth.

Blood gushes in my mouth, but the words won’t come out —

I can only put them in paper, words strung together

With that poetic pathetic-ness you’d only find

In realizing that you can’t even write about it.

In the this room stands a man misunderstood and equally hated

Drowning in whispers oozing from walls and pooling in corners

Of what they tell him, I do not know.

Maybe they speak of what I can’t,

Maybe they speak of what I won’t.

He stands over my bed —

Mute with pride, and I silent in turn.

He leaves and within seconds I hear

The heartbreaking sound of a closing door.

Hate comes from the darkest, most shadowy sources —

Yet we think we clearly know why we hate someone.

It remains a mystery why we can forgive.

It is a mystery why we remember to forget,

And how we forget only when we forget to do so.

The history is a muddle of one-sided stories,

Of facts sang within the keys of emotions.

All of it is a lie.

We are the little people, looking up at the sky

Merely wondering whether we cracked its blue nothingness

With our loosened dreams.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.