I can
Feel you
Slipping through my
Fingers; the same ones yours intertwine with
Just for the
Warmth.

mum asks
why you show your poems to strangers
but not to me?

mum doesn't know
poetry is light
but it can also be darkness
sometimes it is mostly darkness
and poetry is history
and experiences
and things you want to happen
and things you don't want to see

poetry isn't always
chocolate-filled with a coat of sugar
it isn't always pretty metaphors
and nice descriptions of nice feelings

mum doesn't know
my poems can turn a little darker
twisted just like my mind

and she doesn't know
the way I love
or the way I hate
and she would surely ask
and she would surely know who and why and what
and strangers don't know
who the hell I am talking about
and they don't care
as long as they read a good piece

mum asks

I don't reply.

Scars of tear-streaked shame
Or proud tiger-striped strength.
Which are they?
Tonight let's flip the coin.

I'm going crazy
I'm going insane
Please someone
Put me
To rest
Fleeting yet vicious
Thoughts
Are racing through my mind by the
Thousands
I am afraid
I am losing
My mind
I'm thinking
The faint disturbing sounds
From their bedroom
(The strangers I've been living with my whole life)
I'm thinking
I'm wasting away
My life and
My soul
Is rotting and ageing with every
Second
And there is no
Time to stop
Not for breath, not for anything
To the point that
these commas I use feel so
Out of place
Like the words my mother
Gives
As I ask
For synonyms to the words
I deem unfit for
People
Who read
And to those who mock, taunt and ridicule
I hope you understand
That these letters
Addressed
To whoever takes the time to study me twice
Are keeping me from
Running out into
The busy
Road.

What is today but the day before tomorrow?
What is living but spending time we have borrowed?
What is a bird but feathered wings and a song?
What is a man but divinity and wrong?