Thunder covers the
sound of me whimpering into my pillow.
The earth is crying too.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

In case no one gets it,
i collect my excerpts
better
than i spell my prayer.
Spills my personal feelings
and trouble,
longer than i bow
on my knees.

i memorize every shame
and quote it
in a piece of paper,
the same stroke
they did to break
my bones.
Marks down
every of their tone
when i got yelled at,
being degraded.

In case no one gets it,
i use my fingertips to fight.
Being sure of my words,
but never myself.

They can take off my guts,
break down my sanity
into pieces of insecurity.
Yet i’m here to remain bold
until the last spill of ink,
and my pen
can no longer stand.