It was better when the fire of voices were suppressed;

when moments affected me with cold calculation.

When anger, hatred, frustration, sadness could be held at bay,

at little more than the cost of happiness and love.

When only tidal forces could breach my fortress,

and, once breached, would wash away the receding water.

Rational thoughts were clouded less, and rages were few,

except with blood—when built up gases would explode forth on those most familiar and least deserving.

It was better when emotions were suppressed because of memory of pains;

when personalities could be pulled over my face like a poorly fit mask.

When lies and truth mattered little to me,

and each was exchanged for little more than a passing fancy.

But with worse comes happiness and love,

and isn’t the fire of voices but a small price to pay for truly living?