We glance at each other—a fleeting second,
a fragment of time that stretches like minutes.
The weight presses down, sharp and sudden,
as minds and hearts collide in that single fraction.
But for one, it means nothing—just a glance, no more.

And who is to blame?
Different minds, different souls, forever apart.

Silence lingers, heavy and unbroken,
Its obscurity deeper than the fleeting glances.
Noticed, yet unspoken, like whispers lost to the wind—
a fraction of connection, slipping into the emptiness.
Yet somehow, it joins the stillness, inseparable.

Oh, how I long for a bond, fragile as paper in my hand—
just one day to connect, to know, to feel, to belong.
But like the paper, the bond will tear without care,
Fragility demands effort to endure.

Can this aching rift be mended?
Or will it remain, forever just a fraction—
a silence, a passing glance?

A pen that’s bled a thousand lines,
yet pages crumble, left behind.
Each thought I shape, each verse I weave,
feels lost before another’s eye can truly see.

Write, they say—write and bleed,
let the ink meet every need.
But what if lines just fall apart?
What if they never reach a heart?

Doubt is heavy, it presses deep,
like restless waves of ink that never cease.
Yet still, I carve, though lost in night,
a whispered truth, a fleeting light.

And maybe no one sees or knows,
no echoes where the silence grows—
but if one soul should pause and stay,
"Then all this weight was worth the fray."

In public,
I wear it well —
A mask of smiles,
Words sharp and light,
Jokes like armor,
Eyes that never seem to waver.

You see the me I've crafted —
But not the pain,
Not the struggles,
Not the tears,
Not the humiliations I've endured.

All of it — covered, hidden by:
Persona, protege me ab ulterius hominibus qui de me ridebant, semel ostendi infirmitatem meam, et ideo omnes non solum curaverunt, sed etiam me contumeliis affecerunt.

But with the mask,
All seems like fine, smooth glass —
Perfect, flawless,
Untouched.

Yet beneath that glass,
Cracks grow deeper,
Thin lines of truth,
Splitting under pressure.

Waiting for the moment
It all will break —
And when it breaks,
Will they see me?
Or just the shattered pieces?
Will they reach out,
Or step on the shards?
Will I be free,
Or filled with insults of my weakness?

And so, I wear the mask.

I am like a falcon, caught in a troubled storm,
Wings torn by winds as cold as winter's scorn.
Surrounded by the storm’s wrath and hate,
I fly through thunder, dodging their fate.

But as I soar, something starts to ignite —
Feathers burn in silence, yet loud with might.
Free like the blazing sun I rise,
Flames roaring as my anger cries.

As the light of the sun embraces my wings,
And its heat touches deep within,
I feel like the sun itself — burning bright,
Strong and free from chains of night.

A blaze grows sharp at every turn,
Falcon’s fury begins to burn.
Though they try to chain my fire,
I rise in embers, climbing higher.

Like a phoenix, I am born again,
From ash and flame, breaking the chain.
The falcon I was becomes pure flame,
Stronger now, with no more shame.

Their hate the wind — but I’m the fire,
A stormbird born from all their ire.
No longer broken, no longer small,
I am the blaze that outshines all.

The chains, although like weak as smoke,
They lay heavy on me — a silent choke.
No sound of them rattling, no lock to see,
Nothing to free me from what binds me.

Yet even so, I search for why,
But the tighter they grip, the more I try.
I can't break free, no matter the fight,
These chains wrap my soul, and squeeze my light.

Not just my body — they hold my heart,
A prison unseen, pulling me apart.
But in the dark, a flicker remains,
A faint little light that cuts through the chains.

Though small, it brings a calm, a peace,
The knowing that I am not alone in this piece.
Someone sees what I fight to bear,
Someone who knows these chains are there.

The key to the smoke is that light they give,
A hope, a hand, a reason to live.
Even if only one stands near,
One is enough to fight through fear.

Beyond the stars where they dwell,
the void appears - a grief as old as time itself.
And the old man sees, with eyes eternal it seems,
yet his eyes as empty as he.

The night shines, and the void retreats, The sun burns, and the void aches.
for though it stretched through endless dark
the void is weaker than its shadow's mark.

It claims the space where light has gone, but flees when morning sings its song.
A hollow king with crown of dust, crumbled by a ray of trust.

So, fear not the void, though vast it seems for even night must yield to dreams.
And though it hides in realms unknown, Its power fades before Dawn.