An open letter to the emotionally drained

You part your bone-dry lips to inhale your icy atmosphere, slightly numbing your scarce senses; hairs awake in the fluorescent light.

Your fingers retract like creaking doors in a haunted mansion

Resisting each inch like long nails on an old chalkboard.


A violent crack of your knuckles shatters the peace,

Like a bullet against thin glass, fragments strewn on the floor.

These scars walk down you like a red carpet,

Dark hours swept under them for no eyes to see,

Yet bear the unbearable and hold the heaviest truths.


Because you are simply a collection of yourself,

Your mind is a record store and each vinyl is a verse.

Let them play you on a gramophone and hear the sounds of a life,

Place the needle on the lines and listen to your strife,

But once you hear the white noise, don’t be taken aback,

Because what you see in front of you has more than just one crack,

Your surface is a prologue to an infinite sequence of breaths,

The human race consists of more than just lives and deaths.


No human is a scratch card, because we’re all deeper than that,

If you scrape away the silver, you’ll find the welcome mat,

See the world around you and pinch yourself awake,

Inhale the stale air and give yourself a break,

You only have two hands that can do two things at one time,

If you take a seat and stretch your feet it won’t be seen as a crime.


You may take things to heart and crumble at the lightest touch,

Like the ruins of great Egyptian wonders, you can only bear so much,

So instead of asking for more paintings, let your hands work one stroke,

If you just take the hours on the clock, you can fix what you once broke.




The End

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