Poems

Poems are the only way I can express my feelings,

Yet they leave me with an empty kind of healing.

I pour it all out, line by line,

But the weight don’t lift—it just hides behind the rhyme.

I do better when I’m sober,

But feel better when I’m high.

Clarity makes me stronger,

But the smoke helps me lie.

Lie to myself—say I’m okay,

When I’m breaking in quiet, every damn day.

Words on paper, pain in my chest,

I guess poems help, but they don’t fix the rest.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m even real,

Or just a reflection of how I feel.

I laugh, I joke, I play the role—

But no one sees the parts they stole.

I talk in metaphors so no one knows,

How deep this silent river flows.

They say I’m strong, say I got drive—

But I’m tired of surviving just to feel alive.

My pen don’t judge, it just bleeds with me.

It holds my truth when I set it free.

But even poems, for all they give,

Can’t teach me how I’m supposed to live.