Weaving sorrows into poetry
so the words could stitch me up,
for the memories are broken
and wisdom is all ****** up,
Drenching inked papers
in the hues of anguish,
listening to the thunder of words
that makes me want to vanish,
My knuckles are ******
from punching the walls,
for I can't scream back without breaking
to their ignominious calls,
I sit here with tears,
writing poetry out of trauma,
waiting for justice to show up
in a force called karma.
the people we love the most, hurt us the most....they often make fun of our biggest insecurity, make us try to hate ourselves such that we can fit in moulds they want to see us in, say those unknown triggers that tick the self-hate bomb inside us, that push us back into the dark we try so desperately to come out of ....and yet we go on loving them for we are so much because of them..... broken, traumatized, wise, poets....all becasue of them