At times life dries out my soul,
making me feel like a dead piece of coal.
Not even a dying ember,
just as numb and cold as December.
As I lose all my hope to try,
it feels too much to even cry.
But no one has to know,
for I have always been alone in the snow.
I have seen the world nod,
to my perfected smiling facade.
'Cause the world neither needs coal,
nor cares of what it stole.
In a place where music doesn't reach,
or the light of love cannot breach,
I sit alone amidst the deafening noise,
that sounds very similar to my voice.
The one thing I cannot run away from,
which will never let me succumb.
The voice, my string of hope,
helps me tread the tightrope.
Says the cold doesn't set in,
when the spring's from within.
That I am my silver lining,
in this dome that's confining.
I have to be my own,
that, to me, the world cannot loan.
I am not a wavering flame,
or just another fleeting name.
I can defeat this murk,
by being my very own firework.— % &
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