Sometimes she lays there wanting to feel something. Anything
No one cares about her anymore.
Not her friends, her family.
Her life is behind a shut door.
She is surrounded by walls, plain walls.
Walls that hold secrets
Her pains, her cries, her dead memories.
She is forgotten but she doesn't forget.
She has no role in this world
Or so she thinks.
Her thoughts flow like black waters,
spreading through her body, her veins.
Her memories almost dead.
Her heart broken into a million glass pieces
that stab her with every thought of you.
Because you should have been there for her,
when she was alive, when she needed you.
This was the first ever poem I wrote through which I discovered there was a poet living in me, undiscovered.