Speaking through signs —some wear a heart on their sleeve,
but mine has no zipper, there's no easy pull to open the cage
in my chest. Still life is a blessing in disguise, sure — but it’s
cruel how much you must undress it, how much skin and truth
you peel back just to reach whatever “prize” it promises.
Sort of like a wife— no, that wasn’t the line I meant to write,
but strange how a man who stands tall can lean his whole life
on a woman’s quiet strength; the blessing of a wife keeping him
up, while being in disguise.
I'll take a smoke from a good time — while that picture in my
mind is such a drag, a burn between the fingers of memory.
I immortalised life in a photo, to keep the laughter, the sun,
the tan marks stitched into my skin, like proof I once lived
in the same warmth.
Now listen — can you hear these wrinkles speak?
Each line is a sign of the times, a folded map of everywhere
life touched me, and everything it took from me. Always
these wrinkles that remember.
Nov 24, 2025
Nov 24, 2025 at 4:32 PM UTC
Speaking through signs —some wear a heart on their sleeve,
but mine has no zipper, there's no easy pull to open the cage
in my chest. Still life is a blessing in disguise, sure — but it’s
cruel how much you must undress it, how much skin and truth
you peel back just to reach whatever “prize” it promises.
Sort of like a wife— no, that wasn’t the line I meant to write,
but strange how a man who stands tall can lean his whole life
on a woman’s quiet strength; the blessing of a wife keeping him
up, while being in disguise.
I'll take a smoke from a good time — while that picture in my
mind is such a drag, a burn between the fingers of memory.
I immortalised life in a photo, to keep the laughter, the sun,
the tan marks stitched into my skin, like proof I once lived
in the same warmth.
Now listen — can you hear these wrinkles speak?
Each line is a sign of the times, a folded map of everywhere
life touched me, and everything it took from me. Always
these wrinkles that remember.
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