We are the fortunate—we have our blood
When we cannot grasp for pens in time.

We are unbothered when blisters form—
They swell and we are the ones who run.

When we cannot use our impassioned voices
We utilize the power of our salient eyes—

Staring into the depths that wish to haunt—
There is still time for idle pleasantries.

We are the armored monsters deemed
Too soft—when we are simply humanity.