The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

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

When your heart aches
and your soul cries.
When you feel lonely
and you struggle to get through the night.
When your chest hurts
and you're sad to the core.
When you give your best
but they ask for more.
When you feel empty,
you're full of void.
When life means nothing
but the devil's joy.
When your hands shake
while you're playing your part.
When you feel so afraid
you may never be loved back.
When you see nothing
but your future grave
and those judging eyes
turn the other way.
When everything you do is never enough
and the little good things
not a second last.
When all of that happens choose to create art.