Am I really hurt?
Or is it just my way of hiding my mistakes?
Am I really hurt?
Or is it just that I am exhausted of life?
Am I really hurt?
Or is it just me playing the victim card?
I ask these questions from the universe,
But all I get are hollow whispers.
I ask these questions from the crowd,
But all I get are pity stares.
I wonder if my heart is broken
And fear undressed.
I wonder if I am just choosing between life and death.
All this seems *******.
All this seems unrealistic.
But these are my questions
And this is my poetry.
I like my broken self.
Or do I really?
But these are my questions.
And you've got no right
To decide who I am...

A girl so small,
turned into a beautiful woman.
A will so weak,
turned into a strong desire.
And I'll let you believe
that your little small girl
turned into a fire.
The fire ablaze,
makes everyone daze
and lets them get lost in a maze.
That girl is no more feeble.
That girl, though, is no more real.
But she is here, standing strong.
But she is here, proving them all wrong.

Conflict and rage is all that is left.
My mind is shattered, my body restless,
The feelings of mine have turned to ice,
As if the life lost all its spice,
And became the victim of sacrifice.
If I could cry, that would have been nice,
But the broken and torn person would not suffice,
To exist in this world,
You must understand
The game of dice
The game of treachery taking its stand,
I feel numb, not ready to move,
I smell of ashes and residue,
And it seems to refuse,
It seems to refuse ,the darkness within me,
It seems to refuse, the emptiness within me,
I guess that is how you live and learn,
I guess that is how your weaknesses burn....