I am a broken tinker crying inside, tending to other people’s wounds and letting mine open wide.
I cram my woes into crowded mounds then I sit on top of them, guilty and tired.
I feed upon the clamor of the sick, and I thrive by making a living out of it. My shoulders are for tears and for generous treats my words are reserved for those in need.
I spend my days fixing people up real good in no time, willing them to bellow their suppressed sighs. And though I might seem incontestable and bright, good god, I’ve lost all my faith I once had inside.
Yet, I still dream about the day when everything turns around, When somebody will hear the quiet sound of my shouts, someone to do me the things I want be done for me someone to whisper me what I used to say for people’s bliss. And maybe it’s sad but it’s comforting to admit- that I only stay alive just to wait for this to happen to me.
In the meantime, I walk as a tinker with a dying mind, I feel as free as a man ****** by his own kind. When i say ‘it’s fine, you’ll get better you’ll see’ what I really want to say is that I just pray you don’t end up like me.