my face is too hot
my hands are too cold
a manifestation of the confusion
taking place inside of my head

i deserve better
i spend all of my time
trying to please them

what do i get in return?
distrust and disarray
what would i give up
to make this go away? i'd give
the heat and the cold

take both, it doesn't matter
not to me, not to them

i'm on guard all the time
if i let my smile slip
they think i'm depressed

if i smile too much
they think i'm hiding something

what would i give
for a plastic smile?
i'd give up my emotions
what would i give up
to make this go away? i'd give
the heat and the cold

take both, it doesn't matter
not to me,
certainly
not to them

There is a Storm coming,
dark and violent
filled with death,
destruction,
pain
and tears.
There is a Storm coming,
fueled by heat,
anger,
pain
and fear.
There is a Storm coming
it has a face,
evil,
cold,
and frightening.
There is a Storm coming,
a deadly reckoning,
silent,
steady,
and  relentless.
There is a Storm coming,
an unyielding rampage,
savage,
ferocious,
and vengeful.
There is a Storm coming,
a howling wind,
crushing,
tearing,
and unrestrained.
A Storm is coming,
a giant wave,
rising,
falling
and murderous.
I AM the Storm,
I am here
burning,
drowning,
and retribution.

I sat down in slence...
I felt the wind blow on my face...
I felt goose bumps build up on my skin...
I saw the darkness setting in...
I closed my eyes....
I, held my breath
and in the silence,
I heard my heart rip...
I felt it sinking, deeper and deeper.
I felt my heart break. I knew it was broken now for sure
and I let the pain wash over me.

While at work
Random thoughts crosses my mind
Then I’ll hurry to my note
To write down the line

Along the formation of sentences
I always get lost in the process
Poetic thoughts and verses
Gets tangled, I can’t progress

So I ended up with chaotic words
Unrhymed lines and incoherent thoughts
Vague ideas, unfinished poems
Scribbles, doodles on my notes

I am chasing word per word
Trying to form even a rhyme
Or whatever comes my mind
Just to amuse myself during my boring work

I've discovered Hell, and the truth is,
It isn't a place you go, it's a sickness.
It resides within your bones
And its scaffolding is made from trauma.
The only fire you'll find is from the white-hot flashbacks
That leave you drenched in sweat that smells like smoke.
No-one lives there except you and your enemies,
And your enemies are fragments of history, unable to be killed.
Your mind is the devil that subjects you to punishment
That you can't help but be convinced that you deserve,
And escape is a notion kept only for tears;
Everything else remains trapped.
Hell is being held within the cage of your own body
And killing yourself trying to break free.