It bears a secret,
so immense and heavy,
it’s worth a thousand keys.

And laden like a million treasures -
all locked in a lone chest.

To write of it,
taboo.
To speak of it,
blasphemous.
But a taste of it,
heavenly bliss.

So I bear its secret...
One that paints grandeur
and weighs a lifetime.
And it’s worth my every breath.

tears that run like a raging river...
carving into the skin and flesh.
herald the birth -
a gorge that eats into my heart.

see its wound...
look past its depth
and acknowledge the damage -
a beautiful destruction
that only speaks of
the unforgiving nature
of such salt laden streams.

laments that echo cries
of unbridled pain and hurt.
yet soothing like a hymn -
a sung and hummed
profession of loaded promises
and careless whispers.

a hurt that has latched,
etched permanent
and dissatisfied onto the heart...
a pain that knows no peace
because it’s known
limitless love.

When a child throws a tantrum,
he’d cry and scream and wail.
He’d flail his arms and throw himself on the floor.

Like a child I have tantrums too.

But I have grown past the luxury where it is acceptable for me to openly showcase such explosive displays of displeasure and discontent.

So what do I do?
I have to carefully select words that possibly could capture the essence of the disquiet in my heart and mind.

And I pen them down in tears.







This is me,
and I’m throwing a tantrum.

What might set us apart
between mice and men.

Could be the hard choices
in which we must make.

A wise mind
with the potency of ink from a pen.

And a scale to weigh
the outcomes at stake.