To those who’s voices enclose them in a tomb of closet silence.
Where we can look outward but breath
ever so deeply.

Yearning to clasp on to the words
of others but we sit static and hold our hands outward.

But realise that sometimes no matter
our yearning we grasp upon our own thoughts looking inward.

I’m me, I’m myself, I can look outward
but existentially I’ll delve inward
looking upon my own worth.

My realistic version of what
I’m to become.
My past may be scared,
deeply penetrated , never showing
the depth of my sorrow for I only smile.

Fragmented within my inner depths.
Waves may look placid.
But there are only fragmentation
symmetry of delusions.

We are all fractured, but never showing anything but perfection.
Even though we are just cracks
soothed out.

Decoded underneath softly cleaved decryptions of our showcase  of feelings.