Whenever someone
offers me a ride,
I always refuse, and
they are confused as to why.
They don’t hear the
screaming inside my head
or see blood-soaked
sheets on a hospital bed.
They never saw your
black and blue skin
or know that it’s killing me
somewhere deep within.
They don’t understand why
a wreck’s called a wreck.
After it happens,
you can never forget…
Sure, chances are
it won’t happen again.
But I can’t stop thinking it will,
so I won’t get in.
Besides, I don’t mind walking
home in the snow or rain,
No one can see that I’m crying;
it disguises all of this pain.

you think you know a poem or two?
you think you know the words of glue
that stick to minds like they always knew
you think you know a poem or two?

you think you know the hurt and pain
that rymed its way through fire and flames
you think you know a poem or two
that you tried to translate as "i love you"?

you think you know a poem or two
because your family won't give to you
you scribble by scribble
babble and babble about the pain that comes with scrabble

you think you know a poem or two
that talks about me not telling you
you think you know a poem or two
because you take pictures
of ****** "***** yous"

you think you know a poem or two
because you scar yourself with posters of blues

you think you know a poem or two
but i don't know me
and you don't know you

you think you know a poem or two
because you can't seem to find your bruise

i think you know a poem or two
but you don't know me
and i don't know you

i think you know a poem or two
just because you displayed that bruise