I don't know what to do
I saw the poverty of the world in June
But "at least its not me"

Everyone is depressed and broken
They're filled with pain, unspoken
But "at least its not me"

The weight brings me down
All the colors blur into brown
They tell me "just be thankful"

How can I be thankful for a toilet
When my friends are escaping a bullet?

How can I think of comfort and the fireside
When broken children are committing suicide?

Comfort is nice, but does it really matter? Just look around, humanity is shattered
But "at least its not me"

Tears,
Shatter.
The floor,
Cracks.
Against the splashes,
You hear them splat.
Your heart beats furiously.
The girls heart breaks.
She falls.
Eyes shut.
The hits,
Leave cuts.
Her smile,
Vanished.
Against her own will,
She lashes.
Screaming,
"father NO!”

She shaved her head,
the kind
that rebels do
in the past.
She lit a cigarette,
and blew off
tiny clouds of smoke
that she believed
could conceal
her thoughts
privately.

The thoughts
that deprives her of her sleep.

She drank
liquors of despair
of what she described
of her first taste of tequilla
-bittersweet.

Yet
she managed to look up
, raised her camera.
She pointed,
aimed and shoot
for that moon
hanging in the sky.
The moon that witnessed
most of her sorrowful nights,
the moon
who saw every tear drops
that seem to reflect
a little sparkle
with the stars light.

She picked up some debris
of the shattered mirror
under the lamp post,
and studied her face.

Her stare went blank,
it doesn't anymore show
thousands of stories
of resentments,
of remorse
and trepidation
but
fear and hopelessness.

She's gone numb and cold.

And with a sigh,
she let out the words
slowly,
"My heart has cried a story that a writer couldn't even tell"