sooooo younger me made this. I just reworded it So younger me can sue me
Trauma is made, a curse bestowed on us, it seems, A heavy cloak we didn't choose to wear, How we then cope defines our waking dreams. A silent wound, beyond all spoken gleams, A weight that lingers, a persistent snare, Trauma is made, a curse bestowed on us, it seems. Not always violence, nor the harshest screams, But whispers lost upon the vacant air, How we then cope defines our waking dreams. A shattered self, devoid of vibrant beams, A hollowness that breeds a deep despair, Trauma is made, a curse bestowed on us, it seems. Some seek repair, embracing hopeful themes, While others crumble, burdened past compare, How we then cope defines our waking dreams. For broken souls, rebuilding seldom teems With ease, the fragments scattered everywhere, Trauma is made, a curse bestowed on us, it seems, How we then cope defines our waking dreams.
