we: the observers you: the victims we can never know the pain we will try to understand to give you love and support but that does nothing you are trapped trapped behind a glass door of suffering we look on but we cannot know the pain
let your cuts heal, we will take care of the knife
there's been so much tragedy this year, and last year, and the year before that. This is just my take on it from the outside.
But where is the place for the people like us? The artists, the cutters, the solemn observers. Every INFJ. Every poisoned mind. Every social awkward with so much depth they just might sink. The ones who have found their soul but are searching for their mind. The ones who find their mind by losing their marbles. The misrepresented and misunderstood. The hurt and the happy. With a requirement of so much patience and love that no one is willing or able to give. The ones who make adjustments. Who hit rock bottom and manage to get back up on their own. The ones who fall too fast for something out of reach. They end up quietly crashing and burning. The ones who are living under layers of paint; on their hearts and in their homes. Whose sweetness and innocence are buried somewhere underneath the paint, barely recognizable. The ones who were born with a fifty year old soul. Who have a biologically memorized speech that no one will hear; that no one can hear.
I ask you, where will they go, the people like us?