We are the sum of our parts, ruled or ungoverned.
We are the result of our actions, good and bad.
We are the balance between being and wanting.
We are the disarray of the emotions that run over us.
We are the child who celebrates the release of moorings.
We are the retained tear that floods with regret our soul.
We are the density of our feelings, manifest or not.
We are the disguise of our unconfessable weaknesses.
We are the totality of the disintegration of our dreams.
We are perseverance that drags us along uncertain paths.
We are the domain of our contained fury.

We are the tenderness that feeds our inner child.
We are the smile that dies in the tear that slips.
We are the duality of life that never ceases.
We are the bridge between peace and madness that surrounds us.
We are the dangerous correspondence between good and evil.
We are the shadow that freezes our very existence.
We are the glow that dazzles stubborn sadness.
We are the sob that runs through the aching and sorrowful chest.
We are the music that breaks the anguished silence.
We are the perfection of our incomplete halves.
We are the unceasing torment of unresolved issues.
We are the denial that hides our hateful faults.
We are the breaking of the dawn in the darkness of the mutilating pains.
We are the voice that shuts the scream trapped in the throat.
We are the honey and gall of our experiences gained.
We are the hug that consoles sneaky pain, covering it up.
We are the lightness of the steps we avoid giving in order to proceed.
We are the astonishment that invades us to the vision of evil that plagues our brother.
We are the cradle of the most profane emotions.
We are the sore that erodes the secrets of the armed spirit.
We are the poem that counts our saga, painfully.
We are the mercy that forgives, magnanimously, our mistakes.
We are the abrasive heat of our loves, calm or stormy.
We are the joyous disengagement of Sunday afternoons.
We are the lines that weave our sweaters to the soul.
We are the eyes that lurk our fears.
We are the roughness of the rough words that hurt.
We are the trapped hands that do not move in the direction of solutions.
We are the cruelty of calculated, manipulative gestures.
We are the grace we make of our random goons.
We are the reverse of the medal we sport in life.
We are the storm that our conflicts generates.
We are the cruel claws that bind us in an unhappy past.
We are the handcuffs that keep us from flying freely.
We are the eternal metamorphosis that builds our history.
We are the product of our nefarious thoughts, hidden in the dungeon of our inner misery.


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