Who do you trust?
Just so you know —
yesterday was ******* all of us,
so don’t play hard to reach.

People come and go,
stepping into our lives
and then leaving
as if they’d never been there at all.

Are you real,
or did you wander in from Neverland?
Because I know there’s no one left to trust,
so don’t act like this life is a rehearsal —
this isn’t a fairy tale.

So where do we go now?
I don’t know.
But you go first,
and I’ll follow —
or maybe I won’t.

Your words fall like rain on an aching earth,
soft, yet heavy—
each drop a link in the "chain" you carry,
"every word a new link, clink, clink, clink,"
dragging through echoes of silence.

You paint emotions raw, unfiltered, true—
“What’s wrong?” they ask,
but it’s just “easier” to smile,
to let the world see only what’s palatable,
while the storm brews behind closed doors.

Your poetry is the mirror no one wants to gaze into,
the "picture perfect" frame cracked,
the "jagged sharp broken glass"
of a life they assume is flawless.

You cry out— "Help, I need you,"
but the world keeps walking, oblivious,
leaving behind a voice that deserved to be heard,
a heart that only asked for "one minute more."

But here, in the rhythm of your verse,
in the aching pulse of your lines,
you are seen.
You are felt.
And your words—
they will never be left behind.