I look out from my only reference point
Someplace behind my eyes,
Somewhere underneath all the blood and bone,
Where my mask of flesh cannot tell any lies
About what’s going on inside,
Where the inside is all there is,
With no escape from the broken parts,
The old familiar echo of weeping
The sacred laughter few have heard,
All the things heaped with scorn
That don’t know how,
Are unable or afraid to come out,
All the lonely bits,
Hoping.
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