When you feel happy, contended  & delight
...Write!
When the world doesn't seem alright and you're going through an inside fight,
...Write!
When you've a lot in your head,
But your mouth can't speak of that sight,
....Write.

Don't let those emotions,
Clutter inside.
For some of them,
Are better set to fly,
The best escape therefore,
Is to
...Write & Write!

Writing needs not a 'trained writer' always
But a someone,
Who can explode, everything with eloquence
through a paper & pen
And everything that's so incrusted in them.

...And if that writing flows like a fountain,
Of spontaneous emotions,
Seperated by stanzas, adorned with punctuations
Accompanied with certain rhymes & rhythm,
That's exactly what is called a Poem!

..And if what you write,
Is enriched with eloquence,
Makes the reader feel your emotions,
But it lacks the exact rhyme an rhythm,
That's indeed a piece
Called 'Prose/ a Prosy poem'

eyes welling,
body shaking,
heart pounding,
as her tearing eyes
make forceful contact with the ones
looking back at her in the mirror.

the heartache,
the pain,
the loss of hope and dignity
was all too much
as her small hands and red fingernails
wrapped around the small pocket knife.

looking up again to the mirror,
she could no longer recognize the girl
who was standing before her.
her reddened eyes, sulking lips,
and tears washed away
the girl she used to know.

now
she was just a figment
of her depression
as it overwhelmed
every inch
of her struggling body.

trembling hands placed the knife
just under her rolled up sleeve,
pressure placed upon the arm
as the silver weapon
glided across her skin
leaving nothing but a trail of blood.

how good it felt to her
for the pain she suffered
to be physical rather than emotional,
just for once.
oh god,
how good it felt.