On Why I Write

But broken crayons still color the same, aye?

Whenever people read my poetry,

They get all judgmental,

With sounds of

Are you okay...?

Are you alright...?

Do you need help...

I know a psychiatrist...

It's too dark...

Do you want to talk about it...?

But never have they ever,

Colored my skies,

With paint aside from grey,

Sigh,

Have you ever met a person?

Who's battling his depression so much

That he doesn't know what he is,

Cause of the scars that paint his body,

Are ugly,

And no matter how good imperfect perfection,

Sounds like,

He knows his is beyond?

Have you ever met a soul searching for peace?

But gave up along the way,

And befriended his demons,

And the chaos carried along by it,

Because they spend so much time together,

Not playing in the rain,

But destroying in the rain?

Have you ever crossed a beggar?

Nudging at your legs,

For a bite, or a shilling,

Not much,

But just one,

And you just threw your arm around,

Like a sinner from heaven?

Have you ever been alone?

With nothing else but your razors,

And your blood is asking out,

Because it dreads every other vessel,

It courses?

Well,

That is why I write,

I write for the many

that are battling with thoughts

that doesn't seem to give them peace

Not just peace,

Because they feel like,

They already lost,

The fight.

I write for the many

that are slowly dying in silence

their failure is screaming out loud

Those who are invisible

To us.

I write to show them that they aren't alone,

That they have someone else,

Who'll not judge,

Who'll listen to every call,

That no matter how hard it gets,

Like life is every other test,

And with each pull for breath,

They just take in more water,

Drowning a little bit more

With each passing second,

I write for the many

That are bound by chains

That seem not to ever break

The many that have those voices in their heads

Tormenting them every night

I write for those who stay up late till one a.m.

breaking down after pulling off the mask of perfection

At two a.m. when the depression kicks in

and anxiety holds them captive

They wonder if they'll live to see,

Their dreams achieved,

While sometimes,

Making it that far,

Is like playing juggle,

With fire,

I write for those whose voices during these times,

can't penetrate through the pillows they hug so tight

flooding with tears because words seem meaningless

I write for those who are still awake at three a.m.

When Insomnia dips them in the bowl of frustrations

The ones who can't sleep at four a.m.

Because the voices are now screaming out loud

The demons are then dancing on her kitchen table

playing her sad songs, she learnt in her childhood

I write for those whose voices are silenced and their throats are slit

I write for the broken,

I write for the pained,

I write for the forsaken,

I write for the tormented,

I am one of those people, I know,

And I will write as long as I breathe

I will write until these words drag me to my grave

Crisp and cold,

Alone and lonely.

I will write...

Not necessarily to be amongst your best writers,

Of constant rhythm and poetry,

But at least I'm amongst the sad ones you know.

But broken crayons still color the same, aye?

And I'll try so much

I'll try so damn much,

So that the saddest word

you know

won't be

my name.

Written while listening to Invisible by Skylar Grey

Post Tags mental health suicide