To The Eggs

To all the eggs, hard on the outside and soft & playful inside

~you are doing just fine.

This poetry shit ain’t for hard people, they don’t cry, they don’t sleep; On the streets.

Cashing in their sweat for paper and, family

This facade they hold, won’t live till eternity

Suppressing,
compressing emotions,
Final destination heaven.

The strongest of the batch,
No matter what, they are still people, hard people
Their eyes have seen the world dark and red
Their eyes are filled with oceans of sins,
They still have that mischievous grin, their youth is lost wherein they are lost.

Sad songs don’t make them cry, nostalgia is a metric ton of uncalled for blades piercing through them and this wall they set in their heart separating them from their memories; a savage blast from the past.

Sometimes you reap what you never sowed.

They try their best, lest they let down themselves.

Always limited by a lot of threads pulling on them from every direction. Yet, they are always hanging by A single thread.

As long as the suffering gets old, that wall of pain is painted with passion, pretty bold.

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