Trust— Is it just a word, or a knife? Forget it, and the wounds grow rife, Hold it close, still hoping life, Spurn it—souls turn cold and stiff. Trusting one itself is pain, You submit your heart in vain, If it holds, it lights the lane, If it breaks, it pours like rain. From what I’ve seen, it’s cast like dice, It rolls alone—joy or cries, Trust only when the spirit dries, Even if they fake, nothing flies. Trust yourself until the end, Nothing to borrow, nothing to lend, None to break, and none to mend, All that’s yours—to keep, to spend.