On nights we can talk about our insecurities

as if they were our friends.

Oftentimes, they are deformed… shapeless silhouettes that engulf every edge of dark at night.

How cruel, a love-hate relationship of such to be in.

With such spontaneity it ropes you for a waltz into the night, yet so much reluctance it was to be dancing through those thoughts.

Often it catches you by surprise, and sometimes it feels like the walls of the dam are wound down – feelings flood out, intense and furiously. Sharing is caring, and so we share. We open our hearts, and so the heart… cries. Yet there are nights, as with tonight, where even saying “open sesame” fails. Tight lips imprison the plea of the hearts, and so the sea is calm in the eyes of the perceiver.

Perhaps deception veils itself so well, that even the performer is almost fooled into thinking that the storm has passed. But the stirring of mixed emotions, as if the heart were a cauldron brewing a storm, falsifies the deception.

Poem or prose, you cannot have both: you must, to choose between.

Oh, reality, what art thou?


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