You told me I had to hide my emotions,
Put them in boxes, and hide them,
Somewhere so far and so dark,
So I can never reach them.
And I told you that it was not my thing.
I forgot to tell you my thing was to hide behind my metaphors
And never feel my feelings unless it's on pages,
Never know how strong they're until they're read out loud;
And never confess them until I'm with my notebooks.
I forgot that I have always hid behind my metaphors and my peoms;
My words had always been so strong they were already fighting reality,
And I never had to run,
Never had to leave,
Never had to feel fear,
Because I knew I was never alone.
My fists were never good at fighting,
But I knew how to turn my anger into fists,
And make my stress suffer more than my stomach.
I knew how to make anxiety feel anxious,
And how to make butterflies feel human.
I knew things I didn't know I know,
Until I reached for my pen and my notebook and wrote them down.
I knew things I could never tell you about,
Because you'd ask how and why,
And maybe at that time I'll question myself too,
All the questions I could never answer.
Maybe at that time I'll question myself too,
And start questioning my metaphors and poems' existance, and my own too.