Every single

door and window

is locked up tight.

We walk around

with broken minds,

twisted hearts,

undead souls.

We think it's hopeless

but perhaps there is a spark,

a candle flame,

burning deep within,

that shines through

the endless night.

There is a girl,

three doors down,

who's name reminds me

of golden wheat swaying beneath

the sunbaked sky.

The rest of her may be

shattered,

but her fingers fold oragami boxes

without fault.

The scissors came

for one boy's hair

against his will,

all because

his mother thought

he looked too gay.

He lost his proudest attribute,

but he still finds

a way to smile.

A ballerina

with long blond hair

rarely comes

to the kitchen.

She's like a walking

skeleton,

barely there,

nearly gone.

It's hard,

but she somehow fights

the voices in her head

and day by day,

she eats

a little more.

Across the hall,

there is a boy who likes

fistbumps and riddles.

A crash of screeching metal,

years ago,

scrambled his brain.

Though he is almost

a man,

he knows no better than

a young child.

Nevertheless,

he is luck,

he is joy,

he is life.

Another boy has

angry flames

in his bones

that he can't control.

If he holds it in

for too long,

he will explode,

because that's just too much

to bottle up

forever.

Hopefully his music

will release it

with a melody.

Seated at the desk

across the room,

lit up by the bleeding sunrise,

is a girl with chestnut hair.

Her arms are laced

with the scars of her past.

They beat her down,

but she gets back up,

her pen flying endlessly

across the living page.

We're all stuck in a loop of

mad

sad

tired

alone

done with everything.

We've heard and seen

too much.

We are glass bottles,

filled with paper birds,

scrawled with

our deepest

darkest

thoughts and fears.

We are too fragile,

too lost,

too afraid,

to open the cap

and share our darkness

with the world.

But deep inside,

we are still

ourselves,

burning brightly,

waiting patiently,

for courage,

for love,

for freedom.