Sick of the quiet, even more sick of the scars.
Can’t get past the bright lights, to the pureness of the stars.
The suffocating city lights weigh heavy on my mind.
No fountain of youth, just a wish for wholeness to find.
An unwilling victim of a blind symphony.
In a boarded up house, a window to break free.
During the day, demolition draws a crowd.
But lonely night street lights scream way too loud.
You see that brokenness is all about perception.
Only when accepted will you ever find rest then.
To be complete and in perfect disarray.
And the night doesn’t threaten the bed where you lay.
Some may seek forgiveness, and many will never find.
The peace in broken contentment, the quiet like mine.
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