I stood among intellects and pronounced my insanity.
The hall roared in laughter and I was unsure
If it was funny that I was insane, or if it was insanity.
Now, I know, it was foolish of me—the hall reeked of it.
If only evidence of destruction was easy to salvage,
I would show the wrecks, the trials and errors,
I would perhaps fix me with all the patience;
Bit by bit until I am whole again.
When damage goes internal, it becomes invisible
To a common eye, and who cares what burns within?
Some burn with acid, others with hate;
Some burn with whisky from last night’s rave.
Some things are eternal and giving up is number one.
Do not lose faith in yourself—only you can save you;
Forget about the world, forget what it thinks—hope!
You have a drowning man to throw a net to—grab it.
Benson Langat is a poet, fiction writer, and freelancer. A dreamer, he realizes a world of possibilities through stories and explores life in poetry. Benie is a dad and lives in Nairobi, Kenya.