I know I cry a lot
But what to do?
Arcane things pop up.

I broke down
Till my eyes and
Heart ache.
This is how I made—
Instead of handling my mess,
I first cry.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

My mom asked,
Why no friends?
I said,
I just don’t like talking.

But deep down,
I know they think I’m weird.
They ignore me.
I don’t fit.

I used to feel broken.
Left out.
Unheard.

Now,
I love myself.
Even if they call it selfish.
Even if it’s hard.

I’ve found peace
In being alone—
Not lonely,
Just me.

Some days feel heavy,
Like clouds that won’t pass.
They say I’m just a kid—
But feelings don’t check age or class.

Even young hearts wear chains,
Even bright minds feel pain.
Even gems can be cut—
But they still shine again.

So who are we?
What am I?
Maybe someone still learning
To reach for the sky.
I’m scared, it’s true—
But I’ll get through.

I don’t know why I'm scared of everything.
It ***** thinking about it.
I just want to forget it. Little things make me cry, so how am I going to face this cruel world? I'm scared.

Are you okay?
Are you still breathing?

How are you?
It's okay not to be okay.

Just smile.
Keep hope.

God is with you,
Even when you are alone.

I write because I cannot speak
the way the world expects of me.
My voice, when needed, hides away—
my thoughts choose ink, not things to say.

I’m sorry if my silence hurt,
if absence felt like something worse.
It wasn’t you—it’s just my way
to sit with thoughts I can’t convey.

Not everyone is born to talk;
some of us just quietly walk
through pages, poems, unsent letters—
trying to make the silence better.

So here it is, my truest line:
I care. I do. I’ve all this time.
If I went quiet, please just know—
I only speak the way I know.