How can I call it a heartbreak-
when no effort was made.
How can I call it my win-
when everything that I am is now lost when loving him.
How can I ask for time-
when time was never on his mind.
How can I let myself stay-
when all he can do is walk away.
How can I call him my man-
when the ring was never mine to wear.

So I'll drink to this champagne-
and wash my love from here.

-

Why must I be compared to the lives of others?
When no two people are the same.

Why should I bleed for them?
When they too, are scared of wounds.

And why should I not fear?
When fear were the very first, they instilled.

Why should I be replace by a reflection of me?
when light and dark are two shades different.

And why would they think, flowers are what I hold
when my hands, are magnets for blades.

-

Maybe next time my efforts would be enough.
Maybe next time I don't have to fake a laugh.
Maybe next time this tears will turn to joy.
Maybe next time I'll also be enough.

But until when will my next time end?

-

She once was a child
One that was hopeful

She once was as bright
And blooms through winter and snow

She once was as curious
And leaves nothing unanswered

She once was that type
'Till life took it all away

-

I'm better off being a tree than to live my whole being one.

-

Let the clouds tear for her-
and make way for the thunder.
Let the heavens scream all of her anger.

Let the sky show her darkness hour,
and let it show her brightest light-
that she hides behind the morning clouds.

-

And with my selfishness,
I found my life,
my peace.

-

He's on meds-
though none of it had help.

He just wants to be numb-
and leave all of his affections.

He only wants to be drunk-
but sorrow hit him too fast.

-

What is depression?

It's like you're being thrown in a pit without a flashlight. Your body's fine yet everything's heavy. You're mind is functioning yet everything is blurry. You don't know what to do or how to please yourself and others. It's like you, yourself is breaking down and in a state of confusion between fighting and giving up. And the saddest part is when you lose yourself and you're imaginations can no longer give you a sense of pleasure and peace. Where imagination was the border between reality and a sense of relief.

-

I'm the song unsung
By the voice of an artist.
I'm a song that's unwritten
By the hands of a writer.

I could be the words unsaid
By a hidden lover.
I'm everything that I could be
In the hands of a composer.

Until then,
I'm a note that remains unplayed,
Lyrics that remain unspoken,
And a melody, yet to be sung.

-