It's been almost a year,
and I don't know why,
but I am writing about this,
even though I am better now.

My healing skin is now pink,
where I had done art and craft,
sure I can still see the faint lines,
but now even my heart feels smooth.

Those had been some days,
echoing with silent cries,
when I struggled alone to stay afloat,
they were all the same, the days and nights.

We've all had different reasons,
I had mine, to practice on my personal canvas,
where nobody could see my artwork,
But then I stopped, before I became a corpse.

What was I gaining, what were others losing,
a temporary getaway from the pain,
when I could just let go of all of it,
by an hour, crying it off in the rain.

It's not easy, fighting your war alone.
sometimes, it's impossible to talk this over on a phone,
but just know this, the pain isn't forever,
your story isn't just your own.