A fissure on Fimmvörðuháls, by Henrik Thorburn
To look at me you wouldn’t know,
The things inside that grow and grow.
The outside that is calm and cool,
Every one of you, I try to fool.
But the fool is really me,
Hid inside, no one can see,
But sometimes things come boiling out,
The fire you’ll see, have no doubt.
But with the fire the tears do come,
It may seem childish to some,
But the hurt runs down my face as tears,
Easing some hurt from long passed years.
The tears wash away some pain,
A better outlook, I might obtain,
This outlook helps me to see,
When I’m not how I should be.