Hope is an anasthetic.
Willpower a paramedic.
And the cures for the soul they give very ecletic.
All choose misery in the sufferance of silence.
Quiet endurance of self-censorship’s tyranny.
But their hearts will speak, with or without licence,
Forever narrating a wordless litany.

Tales which are carved in stone or ink,
Resonating in air, or in a cook’s sink,
The root of all science, the mother of all art,
Are the verbose beatings of a tell-tale heart.

Living with a bleeding soul & a perforated heart
Coupled with a torn up mind, and that’s just the start.
Fine sprays of pain that serrate and leave scars
Frustrations and temptations constructing mental towers.

Through a trial by knowledge the psyche must rise,
Weathering life’s song of fire and ice,
Their own weakness everyone denies
But it is through fear that one can reach highs.

As this song of strangeness comes to an end,
Abruptly as it began, not knowing what’s around the bend,
Your problems will pass, as all things that existed are gone,
And through the fire and the flames we carry on.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

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