The Holes We Cannot See

What lives beneath the surface

Behind the careful smiles we wear,
the morning greetings, polished bright,
a darkness feeds on unspent care,
a hunger hidden out of sight.

We pass each other, whole and well,
our armor fastened, faces calm,
but who can see, and who can tell,
the void that whispers like a psalm?

It grows on silence, swells on shame,
on moments when we turn away,
on every time we speak a name,
but never ask how weighs the day.

The hole, it knows our secret dread,
that we are less than we appear,
that every word we leave unsaid,
becomes the thing we most should fear.

But kindness is a strange, small light,
that finds the cracks we try to mend,
a gentle word, a gesture slight,
these things can make the gnawing end.

Not heal, perhaps. Not fill. Not cure,
but shrink the space where darkness feasts,
make what was vast feel less obscure,
and offer something like release.

So when you see the ones who stand,
composed while crumbling within,
remember: just to understand,
is where the mending can begin.

We all contain these secret wars,
these quiet caves of consuming dark,
be kind, for every soul you meet,
carries an invisible mark.

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