We are whispers in the night.
Loving, caressing, feeling, touching;
our hands with roughness of reality
and smoothness of the truth.
Scourging genuineness of the battered soul,
we bring to the mind the realizations of the bare,
we belong to the heart.

We hold the heart a hostage
with a double-edge sword that pierces our very soul.
It's painstaking to whip one's own self
with a thorny rose and survive with wounds deep within the soul.
Cries of stupidity, shouts of deceit, wails of joy.
price of pride, among which we hold dear,
in memories we root, to the future we move.

With emptiness on one hand and vulnerability on the other,
humanity enjoys its manifestation
we cling to the stripped skin of the spirit.
Such greatness and curse we have
to bring forth life, to take away one's destiny, to steal one's breath.
It's our pride to showcase nudity beyond barenakedness.
It's our shame to expose images of a weary soul.

Secret gardens are hidden.
Underneath the clothed, beneath the flesh,
lies beauty by far unknown to exist.
We lie. We wait. We move. We live.
In a zone where no one has gone, we are bits,
pieces of a broken human.
We are nothing but important.
We are the totality of a curse.
We are a gift, gift of an existing soul.