What you see,
What you are the days,
The picture of a stoic, etched from stone.
Bold, cold; a crimson feather daring to puncture snow.
People are weights, they only drag me down,
I was made to win, to swim—not drown.
Thick skin, no strings, a confident machine.
Didn’t they say this is what I need to succeed?
What you don’t see,
What you don’t see are the nights,
The tender bleeding of emotion.
Feeling, slowly permeating.
One worked his way in, I care,
And I’ll never be the same.
My eyes are thunderstorms
I am helpless, drowning in their rain.
I can feel it, the war inside.
Day and night, preparing to collide.