Today I wipe my face

clean of my unrest.

I do my best,

yet, there’s still a trace.

Perhaps I will find peace

in the hours of tomorrow.

The unknown knives of this sorrow

slice the faintest pretty crease.

I am myself because of pain.

The seconds here will paint the change.

Then suddenly this place seems strange.

My consciousness is to blame.

I have an urge to give in

to these voices that are strong.

They say I don’t belong.

My patience is growing thin.