Someday I wish I could speak.
Speak and be heard.
I told you I was struggling, but you said I looked fine.
I ask to talk about my feelings, but some how that means I'm hurting you instead.
When will my feeling be about me. . . ?
And the hell I walked through?
How can you make my feelings your own?
When I just need to be heard.
Because I'm confused and scared.
How are my feelings representations of what's real?
And yet my pain is an illusion and so unreal?
I love and I accept, even when I can't understand.
I've been broken and torn everywhere I went.
My soul is so sore, my mind sinks to the floor, my heart lays still, lost without a rhythm.
I never believed my feelings define others, only my own perspective.
Yet I'm always miss heard.
You ask me to open up to you, but as I do, you turn and hide.
Shut all the windows, lock and board the doors.
Then, I am just left. . .
Alone with these feelings I own.
They are all laid out on the floor,
Not sure what ones matter or how to be sure.
Now what to do with these feeling I've stored. . .
-BM
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Late Night Poet - My Bleeding Heart
PoetryMy bleeding heart - part two of the collection of A late night poet. Here lies the stories of a bleeding heart through heart break and loss. The story and journey continues in poetry.
