Wednesday, December 28, 2011


My hand covers the picture
of what I used to be.
Sometimes my awkward structure
frightens even me.
Depression settles in my mind;
hissing, weaving, exaggerating cries...
leaving no room for anyone in my life, I'm in a bind.
My sessions of self-loathing are not lies.
However, I see a clearing
when a smile on another's face
breaks through my gray disgrace glaring  
A light of sunbeams grace.
There is a hope in the mess
of rubble, a wave has a crest.

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