At age six, my mother told me that dancing is not really for me. The ballerina in me died that day.

Age eight, I was told by my uncle that I shouldn't sing for other people. I never hummed eversince.

I held a guitar at age twelve, my brother told me "have you forgotten you can't sing?"

I  look like eight-shattered-dreams.

I trust that we know better now.
Break the cycle.

She was in love with appreciation,

she was in love with the names,

she put them all above.

She was driven by thirst to be loved and cherished,

she did everything to please them,

still, she could never become their gem no matter how much she grinds.

Everyone loved roses she was a daisy, a raven,

so she painted herself red and wore the skin of dove to please them.

Slowly yet she was fading and withering away,

it was never enough.

All, in the end, she got betrayed by the world and by herself,

her heart got filled with grief for letting her self down,

for billeting her courage and killing her dream.

Her pain became her heal,

she glued her heart together,

she took her picture off from the corner of the dusty shelf.

Now here she stands as herself.

A strong pillar who runs a nation.

A creative mind who rules peoples heart by ruling pen and paper.

In so many ways she is you, she is me,

but most important she is herself.

My heart remains invincible ,
My Brain from start was unbeatable.
There is a war going in me ,
Where peace was never affordable,
This disease which I am suffering is untreateable.

I wonder if all poets write about you.
A version of you
that I will never know
or never see
or never want to be with.
Endless poems filled with your thoughts and actions and feelings

He's a mess
Turning into rust
Waiting for a trust

He's unused
Bruised
Confused

The longer he waits
The stronger it gets
He's damaged on the brain, heart and wrist


Currently turning into dust.