Not Crazy

how heavy the world feels

when you start to see beneath the surface.

How we smile with tired eyes,

dance while dragging chains,

laugh just to muffle the ache.

We carry things

we never asked for

generational wounds,

unspoken fears,

dreams we buried

just to make it through the day.

Still,

we show up.

We read the lines,

follow a script

we never agreed to.

We pretend this pain is normal.

This weight,

acceptable.

But some of us were born

with wide-open eyes.

We feel too deeply.

We notice too much.

We hear the silence between the words.

We ache for what can’t be seen.

And no

it’s not beautiful.

It’s not poetic.

It’s exhausting.

It’s carrying the world

in your chest

while smiling in photos.

It’s crying in rooms

where you’re expected to laugh.

But I wouldn’t trade it.

Because even in the weight,

even in the loneliness

of being awake

in a sleeping world

I know I’m not crazy.

I’m just awake.

And maybe,

that’s holy too.