What will it be?

Ikram Hossain Akif

a blue person kneeling on their legs, their face in their hands

The murmur of wind, whispering by
As I drift past the trees, the cars,
and the dead. All the bits and puzzles pile
up into a mountain. A peak, mile
high, but I keep running.

“No time to cry, to feel.
Run, escape the pull as they reel
you in. Don’t heal.
It’ll all be in waste.
Wait for the next time, in haste,”
I tell myself. A pang in my heart
screams aloud, begs to know,
When will it stop?
I sigh, “When I fall apart.”

As fate would have it my legs give
way to broken bones and tears
as I fall to my knees. I can’t help but
let loose and face my fears.

The mountain comes down,
all on me at the same time.
And when the dust settles,
and all I hear is the midnight chime;

I see it. I don’t have to run;
I don’t have to hurt to be heard.
I can have joy, without being coy,
I will be me as loud as can be.
That’s the beauty of life, here and now.
I will be hurt by things I allow,
and that’s okay
as long as I choose the happiness too.
The bittersweet feeling of accepting it all.

I see it now.

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