I never thought of myself as a writer
Because I never found the words to describe myself

I thought of myself as an artist
Because I could bleed my pain so beautifully

So I painted my silence
And called it a poem

An empty casket
Carried by bony shoulders

Not ready to be burried
The dead man carries

His own burden
Empty and lost

to his grave
without a name

no soul to cry
no tear was shed

Just him
and an empty casket

A house, so empty, so broken,
So much words left unspoken

Just screams and fights
A war I never chose

Wishing for quiet nights
Hope gone, like a dying rose

Somehow it is always my fault,
I'm the one getting hurt and yet
They blame me for their own assault
And still my pain, they just forget

I told the stars my pain, but they blinked in disbelief
As if the sky could not conceive a suffering so far beneath
Still their presence offerd a quiet relief

Someone once asked,  
“What is your deepest fear?”  

I thought of you—  
Of how easily you left,  
Of how silence became your answer,  
And how I never measured up.  

But all I said was,  
“I’m afraid of heights.”

Lost in a world that should be mine,
Trying to be better from time to time
But then it struck me, like a lightning strike
I will never be the one you truly like