The air inside my lungs,
The blood inside my veins,
The happiness inside me.

The crack inside my heart,
The teardrops from my eyes,
The emptiness inside of me.

Just a continent in your world,
Just a shadow in your peace,
Just a fraction of your heart.

Just a moment in your life,
Just a tear in your ocean,
Just a name lost in your heart.

I stitched this poem from borrowed pain,
Just in case you feel the same.

Words are windows to a secret place,
To a heart no longer a safe space.

Words are fragile windows, cracked and worn,
To secret rooms where hearts are torn.

Words are windows with a beautiful view,
But behind the glass, the pain they never knew.

My pages hold the parts of me I lost,
Pain truly carried a heavy cost

It is a tragedy, so young and yet her eyes so wise,
As if she saw her world burn twice.

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