Poetry is my voicebox
Instead of translating
Sounds into wavelengths
It transalates my
Thoughts into strings
Of fragile and delicate letters
Held together only by the weak thoughts of my mind
Barely heard through the clutter
And chaos
The jumbled fragments of dreams
All cracked from the emotions
That I've held in too long

I feel your stare burning
On my back
Or it's just me
Replaying the feelings
From 4 months ago?

I keep trying
To ****** a glance at you
Every time hoping that
You'd be staring back
My heart jumps when you look back
Or it just my hallucinations
From 4 months ago?

Every time
I hear your voice
My stomach goes haywire with butterflies
And my voice instantly becomes louder
So you'd notice me
But it's just unconsciousness
From 4 month ago

Everywhere I go
I recognize your blue bag
Everywhere I go
Anytime I see anyone with a blue bag
I think of you
My heart still jumps when I realize its you
Thinking you'd turn around
And smile at my excitement
But it's just my feelings
From 4 months ago

Injured physically
Limping around everywhere
Friends helping me up
I look up
And see him.

My stomach twists
And gets those stupid butterflies again
Expected he'll come around
And help me, ask 'are you okay?'
With those beautiful brown eyes
Just like the old days

He just turned away
Only gave me a quick glance
I forced my smile to be stuck on my face
So others don't think I was hurt
Not on the outside,
But deep, deep inside my heart

Where a knife had dug into my heart
And found its place to stay
And continuously twist and turn
Whenever I saw him and remembered
The time he just glanced at me
Injured, and didn't do anything.

A tiny little thread
Slowly trailing from my body
Filled with depression and dread
It roams around, inspecting the world gravely

Sees all the happy people everywhere
But it doesn't know what's happiness
Smiles on their faces, here and there
All it understands is sadness

One by one, the infection spreads
People realise what is real sadness
Noticing the despair even when unsaid
Everything and everyone is madness

I like to imagine
That all poets have a
Special part of their brain
Which creates new words
And threads them together
To make sentences
Which are bunched into
Stanzas to make a poem
And whenever we go out
Only poets can connect
To poets
And reach out and understand
Their pain

My heart
Was a humble home
Everything was familiar
Whenever I was down
I would retreat to my home
But then you came
And I refurnished everything
To suit to your needs
We lived happily
For 6 months
Adding new furniture
To our new home
Suddenly
You closed the door
And never returned
I sat at the front door
Waiting for the familiar door bell
But it never came
All that's left of you
Are your footsteps on my heart