THEY don't know
what's in her mind
when she's sitting silently,
holding a pen,
writing out herself.
They don't know
how hard it can be
to bear herself
on a piece of paper,
and how lonely it is,
when books are the only one
who understands you.
They don't know
what her writing can do,
and how it could fire
the hearts of people,
who don't even know she exists.
They don't know
how many tears she'd contained in,
just to let them out
with the ink.
They don't know
the power of her words,
and the fury in her poems,
and the war waiting to be fueled.
They don't know,
the way she burns.
They don't know,
the way she shines.
They don't know,
the way she rebels...
YOU ARE READING
They're not words
PoetryFeatured in @wp_poetry reading list [highest ranking in poetry: #83] They're not words... they are a part of me, just like my blood, flowing like ink through my veins, in the form of my songs, my poems... (collection of my poems. poem count:33)
