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b r o k e n
b r o k e n
I think I’ve been through a lot.
Not as much as other people,
And I’m still breathing.
But I’ve heard enough screaming and
door slamming and
cursing.
And I’ve learned a few things.
And I think there’s something to enduring an evil:
Each time something happens, you cry a little less and
you care a little less and
you feel pain a little less and
you speak a little less and
it hurts a little less and then,
you don’t cry at all and
you don’t care at all and
you don’t feel pain at all and
you don’t speak at all and
it doesn’t hurt at all.
And you bre ak.
And you’re b r o k e n.
And the world doesn’t feel real anymore.
You’ve built a home in your thoughts
and a hole in your heart.
You cut your tongue off for certain people
no longer trust certain people
no longer feel safe when you sleep
no longer able to choke up certain lies to make other people feel better
no longer able to forgive the people who take you as a something
After they forced you to become a being of nothing
No words
No feelings
No more emotions
How is it that they can’t remember what they’ve done and they constantly do?
And if they do, how can they tell themselves that it’s right?
How do they sleep soundly
w h e n a l l i d o i s l i v e i n p i e c e s

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I don't write poetry,
unless I have to.
I write my thoughts the way you keep your secrets.
Without other people knowing.