In shadows of 2020, your words still linger,
Soft whispers that dance on time's gentle finger.
Like the mystical sky that weeps with grace,
Your verses drip softly, leaving no trace.

Your tears, they seeped through the lines we read,
Like radiance that persists, a light we need.
Where have the unraveled scars gone to hide,
Those marks of growth, where truths collide?

Your mysterious mists still haunt the air,
With empty promises and unspoken care.
Where is the dream that once flew so free,
Like jellyfish effloresce, drifting to be?

The curves of heaven, the grain of truth—
Your words once captured both youth and proof.
Now silence remains where the cursed night drifts,
Where your wobbled strokes once found their shifts.

Where are the glorious jams of your art?
What stilled your pen, what made it depart?
For in your absence, your poetry stays,
Like a mark left behind, lingering always.

We wait for your voice to rise once more,
To hear your spirits and the world you explore.
So tell me, dear poet, where have you been?
Will your ink ever rise, to dance again?

Do your tears always win?

Yes, does everyone fall to their knees
The second you crack up to cry?
Do all those who hurt you
Come back around to apologize?
Do they tell you it feels like tearing out their hearts
To watch those tears,
Those liquids that can never be solidified,
Run down your cheeks?

Would they do anything to make you smile?
Because they don’t, not for me.
Nobody ever does.

They never realize how wrong they’ve been,
Never run back to me with apologies.
They never sincerely wish to see me stop hurting,
Never want to wipe my tears away.

They don’t, not for me.

I asked a friend why,
And she said it’s because I never look hurt.
I never show how deeply I feel.
Even when I speak up,
I don’t look like a victim.
I always seem so powerful, so comfortable with words and neglect,
They don’t know they’ve hurt me.

Can nobody acknowledge their mistakes?
Unless guilt-tripped?
Should they not know when they’ve wronged me?
Should they not feel an insatiable urge to make me smile?
But they don’t.

And it’s all because I don’t cry.
There are no tears for them to wipe,
No slumped shoulders or quivering lips.
So I have to cry, a river, I’d let it flow,
Because then, maybe, my tears would always win.