‘Reaching out’ seems inexact, with arms too tired to reach

And even dazzling sunsets can seem washed out, sere and bleak.

Grey days are like heydays when most days are gruel and pitch.

And thoughts of checking out become a scratch that you can’t itch.

Simmering nostalgia for a time of peace and love

Empty, vacant pain wrapping your brain tight like a glove.

Facing shattered mirrors, shattered image of a freak.

Life’s a joke, and you feel like a mime denied his speak.

Slamming fists upon a box that only you can see.

While others smile and walk through empty walls with flow and ease.

Worse than that, the box is getting smaller every hour.

Shrinking, stunting growth, getting you low, and tasting sour.

I wrote this to remind you, gentle mime, with gentle eyes,

That even though those eyes are closed, there’s still a brilliant sky

Twinkling diamonds in the night and hissing  peaceful seas

Mountains draping landscapes, fertile soil beneath your feet.

I understand the trauma and the rawness and the pain.

Even though I’m words behind a screen, I feel the same.

I can’t give you answers or an all-purpose solution.

I can only promise that there’s fruit there for the fruitless.

Every shrinking box that holds you in and makes you small

Expands with enough time, that’s a truth true to us all.

Saying ‘it gets better’ might seem meaningless right now.

But it really does, even if you can’t fathom how.

I won’t feed you bullshit or pretend I know your story.

Your shoes won’t fit my feet, and I’m not tuned to your worry.

But I’ve been that circus act, a mime inside a shell.

I’ve worn winter coats and traipsed my way through boiling hell.

Reaching out might not feel right today, but try tomorrow.

Arms too tired to reach today, that wilt like weeping willows,

Might wake feeling renovated, chrysalis completed.

I know it hurts, but every wound can heal. I really mean it.