Can you tell I’m broken?
I think I hide it well,
It takes a lot of effort,
Concealing my cracked shell.

It is just a masquerade,
This smile upon my face.
Inside I am empty. Smashed.
Pieces are displaced.

Pretending is the answer,
The way I spend my days.
As Bill said, we are but players,
The world is but our stage.

But Cohen said the crack in things,
Is how the light gets in.
Perhaps I should not be so scared,
To let others see my skin?

I know I’m not the only one,
Who feels empty, lost and bruised.
Brokenness more common,
That unbereaved or unabused

Still, this broken feeling,
Somehow seems more personal.
I don’t want to share my memories,
That means facing you are gone.