My pen have lost its will to bleed;
For the blood in my veins dries slowly as I give.
My papers began to rip as I live;
For the pumper in my chest slowly dies as I grieve.

My hands have lost its sense of touch;
For I forgot to perceive what I can hold and I cannot.
My tongue turned pale as it perpetually rots;
Unable to taste what sweet and sour— unable to determine what’s cold or hot.

My words may come out gibberish and censure;
For my eyes couldn’t see what else is unsure.
And as my mouth speak the words of cure;
A sacrifice must be done— just take my breath and let me wither under the sun.

How cold was the night when Belle learned to love a horrid beast?
How bright was the evening when Wendy chose to never leave?
How silent was the dark when Aurora was sound asleep?
How selfish was the midnight when Cinderella’s shoe fell off her feet?

Now, those are magics and princesses made up of fiction and fantasies;
We are blood and flesh made up of atoms and reality
Who are forced to believe someday we'll be as lucky
To have our own kind of sweet tell-a-tale stories.

But how cold was the night when you waited for someone to come back?
How bright was the evening when you wished upon a shooting star on the sky?
How silent was the dark with your sobs and tears that were left to cry?
How selfish was midnight when you realize no one's returning as you look at the clock?

It all happens after AM
when the night was cold
while the evening was bright
the dark was silent
and the midnight was selfish.

— 𝙘𝙗.𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙

He is a writer
who wrote a number of letters
that formed a continuous crater
in the heart of his seekers.

Yet do you know how he's feeling?
Under the pressure you keep giving,
his poetry does not stop striving
because he loves what he is doing.

But on a piece of paper, sadness could be written
Anxiety could be spoken
Loneliness could be hidden
And depression—there's no end.

What has he come out of it?
If in the end, only his readers will benefit?
Is it really worth it?
Dying alone in this perpetual pit?