Is writing really my thing ?
Yeah I may create stories—
Fulfilling ones.
I may craft poems
That flows like rivers.

But every one can write.
Everyone can imagine

So what makes me unique?
What makes me special?

We all crave something,
But once it's in our hands,
The craving ,the longing,
The spark—it disappears,
Drifting away
Like a leaf upon the river.

I find it scary to write a poem,
because what if people don’t like it?
Or worse — what if they do,
and it means they’re broken too?

Does it mean they also can’t find
peace and treasure in their mind?
Does it mean they feel the same,
so my pain is not a claim?

The fear, the loss, the pain and everything
If its not mine does it leave me as nothing?

For a long time,
I tried to change myself —
the clothes I wore,
my hairstyle,
even painted my face with makeup
to hide everything I thought wasn't enough.

I thought if I were different,
People would finally love me.

But I forgot something small and true:
No matter how I change,
I am still me.

And the right person will love me
for who I am —
not for the versions I pretend to be,
But for the real, messy, honest me.

I don't believe in love at first sight,
Because how can you love me
Without knowing my flaws ?

True love is when you love
Every scar in me,
Every imperfection.

Cause that's the beauty of love.
I want you to want me
With your soul,
Not just the heart and the mind.

I want you to crave me,
Get butterflies when I'm around
And ache when I'm not.

I want to feel home in your arms ,
Lost in your smile,
Where my troubles dissaper.

I want crazy love,
Where we’ll get washed by the rain
While dancing,
Where laughter grows louder
Than a crescendo.

I want us to paint our faces
With flour as we bake,
Messy hands,
Because love isn't perfect
It's messy and playful.

I say, "They are just thoughts — they will go away."
But these thoughts yell louder than my words ,
Sometimes it feels like my brain will explode.

Depression is living with a dead inner being,
Dragging my lifeless body day by day—
Too many sleepless nights ,
My mind fighting demons.

I am afraid of who I've become.
Afraid to light a dark room,
To face a mirror —
Because mirrors don't lie.

It's funny how I look happy outside
While I'm breaking inside,
Each breath  heavier than the last.
Depression is like a death sentence.
It's really hard to leave my bed.
Sometimes I think the world
Would be better without me,
Because I don't really matter.

I'm tired of pretending I'm fine,
Tired of faking smiles,
Tired of answering "I'm okay"
When the truth is — I'm not.