The smudge

The power, the passion
The screams and tears
You scribble the words
You grace, you embrace 
Nothing may exist
Nothing may seem real
But they do. 
In fact, you may seem a little crazy 
With smudge black all over you
Even I look weird with my face on a goo.

But that is not how I heal. 
I just clean up.

I am quenched 
With all the sorrows
I feel utterly grieved 
My tears have no limit.

My words are louder than my thoughts
You mention the talks
You mention the walks 
In solitude he rots

But at the end of the day
when you’ve got smudge on your face
all you do is cleanse 
socked in and drenched.

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