They are not the ones in hospital gowns,
Nor do they burst out into convulsions.
Their faces are not laced with morose frowns,
Their eyes do not weep upon impulsion.
Instead, they bear insomnia-trodden faces,
And enter the world through their bracing pens.
Never have they sought fraudulent graces,
Their sole aim is to one day, feel whole again.
All of the sudden, the day meets its end,
Tears explode into the cold steering wheel.
That thing caged inside your chest- bleeding red.
It weeps for the key to your vile ordeal.
So when they pass by and duly concuss,
You must recall, for yourself- they are us.