Some people wear their despair.
Others, cloaked in fear.
Some people cry, kick and scream
For release;
Others drink it away and smoke it in, and
Release it back into the atmosphere for others to consume.
Some choke their arms and wait for that liquid boom.
Some laugh and sweep it away, recycling the pain.
Not without guilt, I dress and layer my hurt with store bought
Band-aids made of cotton, wool and cashmere.
I go to church seeking shelter from it.
Under pride, it hides sometimes; polluted with knowledge soaked vocabulary and cliched sayings like:
What will be, will be.
The masks can sometimes be too heavy.
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