They say poets die young,
but we never got the chance to live.
They shut us up,
tore the pages
before we could even write them.

They said we felt too much.
Too soft.
Too loud.
Too weird.
So they called it weakness,
and they crushed it.

They didn’t wait for time to take us—
they killed us early
with silence,
with laughter,
with rules
we didn’t make.

They say poets die young.
No.
We were killed.

i wish someone's
dark brown eyes
made me write—
each line steeped
in love,
each poem
a quiet devotion,
a place to drown
softly
in their gaze.

i wish
there were arms
to run to
when nothing felt right,
a heartbeat
to rest inside
when the world
grew too loud.

always the child
who never got appreciated
just an unwanted child
trying her hardest
to be the perfect one—
just once.
trying her hardest
to be appreciated,
dying to hear:
“you did a great job,”
“the dish you cooked was very nice,”
“i’m proud of you,”
“you scored 98% in maths,”
“i’m proud of my daughter.”
she just wanted
to be loved.
to be seen.
to be appreciated.

People say the youngest has it all easy.
They say she's loved more.
They say she gets everything she wants.
They say she doesn’t get hurt.
People say so much about her...

But they never really saw anything.

They didn’t see her cry late at night,
because no one ever hushed her during the day.
She searched for love in every soul she met outside,
because she never felt it within her own home.

She was “just a mistake”—
that’s what they called her.

No one wiped her tears.
No one held her hand.
She had to teach herself how to be strong.
She had to grow up before she was ready.

Her voice was never heard—
just ignored.

Why do I love
so hard,
so deeply,
when I know
it’s only going to hurt me more?

When I know
it’ll just tear open
old wounds—
make the scars bleed
all over again,
like they do
every time I care,
every time I love.

It always ends the same:
with me feeling
like I’ll never be enough,
like I’ll never be the one
they truly want.

Just a maybe.
The one who loved
too hard,
too deeply.
Who smiled through the day,
and let her eyes bleed
through the night.

Cold.
Unheld.
No warm arms
to wrap around her,
to whisper,
"You are enough"
"You matter"
"You mean something"

But those words never came.
Just silence.
Just pain.
And more scars—
fresh,
red,
and aching.

a kind of love
everyone else seems to have—
soft,
gentle,
like being seen
and still being held?

The kind of love
where I mean something
just by existing.
Where someone chooses me,
not despite,
but because of
the mess I am,
the emotions I carry,
the storm I sometimes become.

Where being me
is enough.