Holding ballpen, inks to paper
are comfortable to my hand
writing thoughts that I combine together
that controlled of my optimistic mind.

My feelings more on sorrow
are the topic that I want to write
everyday, later or tomorrow
it will be released by my broken heart.

Your flaws and non-sensibility,
are the reason why I'm gaunt
not physically but emotionally—
I write because of my tired soul.

The voices of my mind, heart and soul
were ignored by the pretending deaf
the reason why I just write at all
and unexpectedly poetry was bleed.