Is it wrong to be different?
or do i have to be the same?
Do i have to wear pretty dresses,
put make up on my face?
Do i have to sit still and smile,
wait until i marry a rich man?
why cant i be myself?
And be free like the birds?
Let me ask you once again,
Whats wrong with being me?

I've ran out of ideas,
my brain has froze,
and my hands cant flow.
This poem i cant finish,
I bit off more than i could chew.

little ms. perfect,
has a little secret.
She's a big fat liar,
and you can't trust her words.
She cries,
yet she lies.
So whats the point in her?
Her words are like honey,
but be careful,
They sting!
she'll drain you till you drop,
so leave while you can!

The sun has risen,
can you hear?
the songs of the morning birds.

Life begins to wake,
the gentle breeze,
blows softly against the trees.
A lovely view awaits.

The orange sky,
the feeling of life!
a beautiful sunrise it is.

unleash all creativity.
as we watch them go by,
and dream beneath their beam.

A star, one so bright,
glimmers on the sky.
i see each and everyone,
Their light never dies.

So beautiful, the stars together,
they shine so bright,
it leaves me in awe.
They soothe me with their light.

Each spark is a quiet promise,
a secret from afar.
They guide the hearts that wonder.
no matter where they are.

I speak,
but do you listen?

(read forward, then backward, line by line)

I ran.
Not knowing what else to do
There was so much blood on my hands
It was mine
The kitchen knife
Caught in my chest
Guilt
Consumed by
Fear
I was heightened by
Adrenaline
But running on
Wasn’t enough
While trying to stay calm,
Losing control
It was me that would end up
Dead. Because
He was
In front of me
The whole time
It was too late
Trapped
I found myself
Locked in chains
My fate was
Death.

He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

we write,
in the shadows.
And spill our souls in ink.

Our thoughts drip,
onto unwritten papers.
and we let,
Our hands flow.

Each line,
a drop of our feelings,
Each Stanza,
A pool of our emotions.

So let us write,
not for the world,
but for ourselves,
on this blank page,
let us bleed,
bleed ink.