Inside every person you know,
there are many you don’t.
These other people
live in dark, silent rooms,
the doors to which
you will never open;
light creeps in sometimes
through the broken glass.

You see their smile
but not the storms that carved it,
you hear their voice,
but not the screams that haunt them.

People are oceans
pretending to be ponds,
their depths are known
only when you wade in deeper;
you think you know them, but
you only know the surface,
from the mask they wear for you;
the rest live undiscovered,
in darkness,
in silence.