'Am I really a poet?' I ask
While my fingers are giddy over the tissue paper I let them sweat their stress away on
They're my blue charade on a white strip of lifeless glamour.
When I first decided I would attempt to be a writer,
My words tried to escape my lips and I was forced to swallow them back
Because I heard somewhere being a writer is bleeding through your fingers and drumming away the pain on dry,  chipped lips.
I never knew why my throat always ended up being sore though
As I never knew silence could be so draining
And maybe its a lie when they say its a quite remedy
False advices pored in to our needy hearts
Trying to mend them back with watered down clay
That we never let dry in the sun for fear of exposing all that was hidden.