He doesn't burn photographs He doesn't join therapy sessions He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes Nor he drown himself into alcohol He scratches his wounds daily And never let them heal He doesn't try to get rid of the pain Instead he let it grow on him He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears He feeds it with the manure of old memories He takes it to sleep with him And nurtures it in himself Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain Until his fragile heart can bear no more And his soul starts overflowing with emotions That's when he dip his pen into this pain And empty his heart on a piece of paper He bares his soul for us to feel He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
you stole my light when i told you to stop and you ignored my red light and kept going like my body was undiscovered land and you were a colonizer. perhaps my asking you to stop turned you on made you hungry. you looked at me with your hungry eyes like i was fresh meat for you to take and have for yourself ignoring my stop signs cries screams because i am nothing more than an object to you made for your manipulation and pleasures.
why do we say the sky is blue, when it's not always that way? the sky can be red, purple, black, green or gray. why do people say i'm a happy person? when i'm sometimes frustrated, tired, or drained, but usually i'm just blue.