There are no mysteries,
there's nothing new, either.
I'm the same person.
The same old shell:
sometimes opened, sometimes tightly closed.
Rarely empty.
Except for these tears that roll
only when they want
and become small spots of pain
and grayness inside.
I'll cry not.
Not now.
I'd rather write
or yell
or fight
or run
'till I'm breathless
speechless.
Letting everything
(watching everything)
come.
Letting everything
(watching everything)
go.
Waiting until I'm ready.
'Till they are ready.
Then they're like a storm,
a waterfall, washing over me
flooding me.
Cry me a river, they say.
I could cry several.
But I can't ever really reinvent myself.
Only some lines, maybe.
Hardly full of mysteries.
Never completely new.
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