it is not the poetry perse
that we depend upon as an escape
it's  the words that we use
to keep our aloof soul safe.

Don’t we all hear the same sound
of a raging stream
Don’t we all feel the cold breeze
of September’s wind
Don’t we all see the stars shining bright
when it dims
Don’t we all smell that flower’s scent
when it’s spring?

The sound of a flowing water wants us to know that
we still have its melody when we hear nothing
but bones breaking
The touch of zephyr wants us to know that
we still have its warm hug when we need
to feel a thing
The view from above wants us to know that
we still have its solace when everything
our hearts see is darkness
The scent of the flower we hold in our hands wants us to know that
we still have its beauty even when we feel like
everyone’s stabbing us with its torn, cutting our flesh.

We are alive even if we don’t feel like we are.
Love still flows even if we live from afar.

a skeptic and a believer
in one cracked soul;
a not so lover of words
and a poet in one beating heart;
a grotesque and a beauty
in one complex mind;

it’s a person against the world
and a human against himself.

i never knew silence that much
until that very afternoon
when i tried so much
to hold my teardrops
and hide the sobs
that were exploding inside
my weary body
and my wrecked soul

i wonder,
if i was found dead that day,
would they think 'twas suicide
or would the police say,
"she was slain by the silence
that was enclasped within her solitude"?