My Diary

  My verses are not balm, but gasoline poured onto the embers of my soul, Sealing the wounds, keeping the fire burning, a pyre of pain and passion. I write to excavate the scars, to expose the raw nerves, To salt the wounds, to keep the memory of hurt alive, a ghastly, glowing ember. I write to anchor the pain, to tether it to the bone, To make it mine, to make it scream, to make it sing. Pain is my mother tongue, silence my suffocating womb, Between scream and hush, I birthed myself, a stillborn soul reborn. If I let the wound heal, I'll lose the fire that forges me, The flame that tempers my edges, that makes me sharp, that makes me cut. I'll be a husk, a shadow, a whisper of what I was, A forgotten scream, a muted whisper, a silenced song. I keep the wound raw, a festering, pulsing heart, A reminder of my pulse, of my existence, of my defiance. These poems are not bandages, they're battle scars, Proof that I was here, that I fought, that ...

You're waiting for me to end it, thinking I'll fade away like a worn-out trend. But I'm not going down without a fight, without making you face the mess you've bent. You've taken, taken, taken all this while, leaving me a shadow of the love we once did learn. You think I'll settle for scraps, for leftovers of your love? No, not this time, I'm worth more, I'm worth the whole damn thing. I'm counting the seconds, waiting for the day, you'll realize what you've wasted, what you've thrown away. You'll see my worth, but it'll be too late, gone astray, I'll be long gone,  Moving on. This isn't love, but a mere joke for you, a pathetic attempt to hold on, with hollow words, untrue. You should be ashamed, you should be disgusted, at the man you've become, at the love you've rusted. I deserve the real thing, not watered-down, half-hearted, broken wings, not a love that's conditional , not a love that stings . I deserve ...