It’s the small things in life
That do the most damage.
It’s the subtle, secret strife
And the stress you just can’t manage.
The stupid mistakes and rolls of the dice
The best laid plans of men and mice.
When things just aren’t working out
It’s not what you see, but what you don’t
That you should worry about.
It’s the slow things, the silent things
And the players of the puppet strings.
The tears you never shed
The scream inside your head
The things you should have said
The little biting things
That inner darkness brings.
It’s not what you feel, but what you don’t
That keeps you down.
Everyone else seems to float
While you try not to drown.
So let it be said, and let it be known
The only thing worse than dying alone
Is living in that lonely place
Where the light is never shone
Like a castle with a cold, empty throne
Like a beautiful body reduced to bone
Buried by time, obscuring the crime
Without witness, without justice
A restless soul resigned to silence.
What a very small thing it is indeed
To be so filled with emptiness.