The Curse Of Noticing

I wish I didn’t see the cracks,
the silence stitched in whispered acts,
the tremor hiding in a smile,
the shadows trailing all the while.

Each glance becomes a sharpened blade,
each word a ghost I can’t evade,
the weight of knowing, heavy, deep,
a sleepless mind that will not sleep.

How simple it must be to drift,
to let the world remain a gift,
to walk through rooms without the ache
of every tension hearts can’t shake.

Yet—would I trade this haunted sight,
this curse that carves the day from night?
For in the ruin, truth is born,
and from the wound, my voice is sworn.