i’m sick to death
of crying my eyes out,
pretending i’m happy.

i’m sick of the monotone
cycle of work—
made worse
from never resting,

from working
on holiday,
in another country,
when i should’ve been free.

i’m becoming no one.

i wanted to give you
enough time
to replace me – good luck,
but somehow
i underestimated
how much i had left
in my emotional tank.

three and a half years
was the greatest opportunity.
finally belonging
to a family that cared.

let that mean something.
right?
all due respect.

a keyboard and a screen
no more paper and pen
times move on relentless!

Are you a judge, why do you keep objecting me?
I am not a clown, but I am a laughingstock
I am not a mistake, but you saw me as a failure
Well is for fetching a pail of water, not for pushing me down to drown
Snakes are crawling, how come, you are also walking
Coins have two sides, so are humans too, but you are one sided.
What is wrong with my eyes, why do they have subtitles, the same goes with my face.
My eyes, they side eye or roll
My lips, they twitch and glitch then smirk
My face went from normal to poker
My eyebrows are raised, but I prefer to walk away.

Sitting alone at home
In the eerie glow of our
Phone or watching the
World through our TV.
We may or may not care
Because we know we're
not there, but what will
We do when we will be!

But the answer can't
Always be "I'll face it
Only when it eclipses me"
Because we must be
Wide awake and stay
Awake in our research
And engagement with
Others at stake to
Understand the various
Levels of hate so we
Can be effective when
Faced with it head-on!

I’m asking for help.
I’m reaching out my hand—
because I’m falling, and I’m falling fast.
I’ve been swallowed by the depths of sadness,
of exhaustion,
of loneliness.

But instead of being helped,
I was mocked.
Instead of being comforted,
I was insulted.
Instead of hearing, “I’m here for you,”
all I heard was,
"That’s your fault. You’re weak."

Instead of wiping my tears,
they laughed at me.
And now,
I’ve become the joke—
the laughingstock.

Like my pain was a punchline
and my breakdown was entertainment.
They didn't see a cry for help,
they saw a stage.

I want to rise above it.
I want to breathe again.
But every time I try to climb,
someone pulls me back down.

I get yelled at—
as if I have no right to be tired,
as if I have no right to be sad,
as if I have no right to simply ask for help.

They think I choose strength.
But the truth is,
strength is the only mask I have left
when I have no other choice
but to hold myself together.

I don’t want to give up.
But what do you do when every cry for help
is answered with ridicule?

How do you keep fighting
when the very people you expected to support you
are the first to strangle you with their words?

I used to be afraid of the dark — but not anymore,
because the darkness around me and the darkness I feel inside have become the same.

Instead of being saved, I was pushed off the edge.
Instead of being helped to stand, I was mocked even more.
Their words speak of kindness, but their actions betray cruelty.

They preach fairness, yet they have favorites. For them,
love overflows — but only for some.
For me, it's always just the bare minimum

I’m tired.
Tired of explaining myself.
Tired of pretending I’m strong
just so they won’t call me “attention-seeking.”

I’m not asking for grand kindness.
I’m not asking for all the answers—
all I wanted was a little understanding.

Just once,
help me stand
before you judge me.

there was once a frog he built a frog hotel
at the bottom of my garden so other frogs could dwell
he made it from some drain pipes laying on the ground
all of different lengths little frog he found

joined them all together  with bends here and there
lots of different entrances they were every where
built it by the pond so they had water to
from there frog hotel they had a lovely view

all the frogs would visit on there holiday
and in the frog hotel all the frogs would stay

i miss my independence.
this whole holiday –
the point was
for the two of us
to get away.

instead, it lifted the pink fog,
and all i can see
is the change.

us, us, us.
we, we, we.

there’s no space for my thoughts.
where they used to live,
the quiet room
is now a nursery.

and the shift is deafening.

there’s no more me.
just the polite,
domestic ghost
haunting me.

i don’t know
how to have the talk.
this is the first time
i’m handed something
that aims to last.