I hope they know that I was writing.
I hope they know that poetry was the reason why I could fight it.
At night with my broken heart trying to fix all the pieces that have broken apart.
So do we call this art?
Or is this just the start? Of finding all the answers left from the people who have left their mark? Will we ever know? Will they ever show? The love they once had for us which taught us about growth.
I highly doubt so.
Emotions on low, that every single person I've met asks me why I don't glow. I guess this is the part where I start to explain, how I am still alive and how I manage to stay sane.
"you learn to numb the pain" caused by people, circumstances and something's you can't mention in vain.

If pain takes me away, I want you to proudly say that you knew somewhere that I was writing and I'll be okay.