Is it me?
is it so hard to see?
My pain, my sorrow
cutting like an arrow.
It wants to show,
to grow, to flow,
but all it can--
is burrow.
Words are spoken,
but they seem broken.
Pieces missing,
but still persisting.
I lay bare.
Only for a puzzled glare.
With every stare,
it gets harder and harder to share.
Maybe hidden is the best way,
for it to fester,
until there's nothing left to say.
Hi, I’m sixteen and trying to get better at writing.