Broken

Broken He holds his fears close to his chest like treasures, almost. And prays. He believes if he pretends long enough, time will eventually devour them. He shields his mind in a hushed symphony of wounded silence and refuses to feel. Real men do not cry. Most days, he convinces himself he's whole. He separates his mind from his thoughts so well, Now, even his memories have learned to lie to him. However, when the rowdy voices stampede through his head, the tears left behind make him hate himself. Does this mean he is already broken? Still, he carries the brittle fragments of himself and readies his stride to run away; hoping to start over, but he cannot escape the deep, ravenous scars. He feels helpless as his mind's gait grow unsteady and stumble. But he remains trapped inside a storm brewing within him. He longs to break free, but succumbs to the mind trickery, oblivious of where reality and fantasy deviate. Does this mean he is broken? He falls asleep awake, mining answers for interminable questions. Sometimes, ploughing the shallow darkness of his mind to park and rehabilitate his pain. But as he struggles to drown out the boisterous deluges of useless internal chatter; his abbreviated strength gets trapped somewhere between the jagged crevices of self-doubt and the sharp edges of despair. He wants to retrieve his voice from the many vexing voices that invade his thoughts and fill him with dread, but to no avail. Does this mean that he is truly broken? He tries to reconcile the various versions of himself and wonders why his old dreams now shout obscenities and mock him. He closes his eyes as a last resort to mint courage from within. He reminds himself that even in the depths of nowhere, he is somewhere. He tries to lift himself up and recast his fate. He refuses to become the victim of his own thoughts.