In solitude, I collect my tears in a fractured glass jar,
while watching the imperfections in the walls observe me,
conversing, with hundreds of tiny sparrows – near and far.
My hands hold the side of my head, stabilizing my screams,
keeping the potential explosion at bay,
saving, the few emotions left, from being consumed by the sea.
What more could these saturnine walls want me to say?
I don’t have any degree of strength remaining.
I haven’t any idea regarding how much longer I can stay…
The walls conceive any demented feeling pertaining,
like mockingbirds attacking my scars.
My misery, that which they find entertaining.
In solitude, I rest in a valley of scars,
while my hands fumble with a box of stars.