I still write, a lot.
I just don't share it as much anymore.

And she became one with the dust specks swirling in the Janaury mornings chilly breeze
Drifting along as if she had no other care in the world, smiling to and fro
Always in the front row trying to help others find warmth in her soft kind words of glow
When in fact she carried the weight of the complicated on her two shoulders alone
But she'd always be too shy to ask others for help
for fear of them thinking she was unthinkablely selfish indeed, although,

Although she was, far more complex to be understood at first glimpse truth be told
and when she fell
it sometimes took most time to see
It was most probably because they all believed
She had become nothing more than just a swirling dust speck
Swirling in the early mornings of January chilly breeze

Falling invisibly only visibly seen
when was she back on her feet
because what good was she if she couldn't be of use to those in need?
And who could ever be sure she was anything more?
Than just pretty tricks of the light
A play on your eyes only alive to mesmerise and not really existing for a purpose
Other than to please the people
But she was the realest thing you ever knew
And one day....

She'll be the one you'll wish you spent more time noticing too.

After laying awake way past her bedtime
There where nights she cried herself to sleep,

Thinking how could she have possibly been so naive?

But as she closed her eyes and wanders down the streets of once-used-to-be's
She realises, she'd lost herself to a past of full of mistreatment
But now she refuses to be a victim of it and stands tall rising above it
There used to be a time she'd been used, and so to be used was all she knew
And to crave love, a sense of belongingness, was unthinkably selfish
So instead of finding love from within,
She'd give her all to all those who'd treat her like she didn't mean a thing
And apologised and forgave repeatedly though she was never to blame
She became a dreamer of dreams to cope with the painful reality of things

But now instead of living with wishful thinking
She wakes up and struggles hard to make her dreams into a reality
No longer a slave to her fictional fantasies

I feel it not fit to call myself a writer,
because I feel the title belongs to those who write something worth reading.
But I write nevertheless.
In hope maybe I'll be one.

I could write you essays
But nothing would do my thoughts justice
As do my shaking fingers and the way I twist them in nervousness
My unsteady beating heart
The screaming tears
The thumping bangs of arguments
The constant waves of negativity that wash up uninvited
And are welcomed by arms that are mine
But that I wish not to hold.

The screams now shout louder than ever in the silence of my unspoken words, but just like me, they go unnoticed.