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.