and the first question that came to my mind
was how on earth did I even survive?
Because I know why I wrote what I wrote
and I know how much I choked
on the agony of words that poured out of me.
I know what I have been through
and these poems record it.
They know too.
And to a degree,
everyone who reads them knows as well.
But at the same time
no one else knows for certain
what exactly was my Hell.
How did I survive?
Why did I choose to keep on going?
Why did I choose to stop writing at one point?
Was I really that depressed?
I guess I was.

*I guess I was.

How I lie and break, broken till to the very tip of my bone
I dislike how I ate my own hate, swallowed till it reaches the gate
How the voices preach to breach the barriers of the untouched soul
Purity bleach the acidic preaches of ones owned,
rinsing the putrid echoes of THE hateful stone.

Innocence remains unreached; it’s a battle of everyday presence.
My pure essence survives the life’s impermanence.

Winning and Losing stands in equilibrium.
Life is not as tasty as the sweet brew.

No matter the good,
I can't shake this loneliness.
No-one can hear me.