Poetry

He came as a wrecking ball and…
and crashed my naive heart
Even though i tried to grief my pain out,
it still hurts.
i got scorched scars that still ooze smoked ashes whenever Love’s mentioned,
His name become a bump on the road, that my stitched heart wouldn’t take.
so now i write
i write to survive, when my blood is pulsing in my head
i write to cleanse my soul
when people see my hidden nudity
i wear poetry
it’s how i paint my pain into writing
it’s a language i understand myself
it’s how i lie to myself that, “its gonna be ok”
when I’m dåmñ sure i can’t float in a drained ocean.
it’s how i realize even if i’m just a drop in an acean, i still got my identity.
i write to depict my own thoughts…& my very feelings about my life experiences
even though it feasts on giving a great personal cost of myself,
atleast it allows me a small window in which i fall apart,
after all there ain’t no shame in shading a few tears.