“I try so hard to make sense to people, to things,
just so I would feel like I have a purpose, useful.
’Cause I don’t want to be described as a pest to the world.
It would be an offense because pests bug you at night,
whisper to your ears,
eat your brain piece by piece,
until they become you.
And though I am so near to being fully consumed,
and my sanity is falling apart,
still, I try to make sense, to have a role.
So that, at least, before I die,
I am sure that I did something.
And I’ll make sure that I won’t turn into a pest,
even if the only way is dying.”
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Hey You, Stranger!
PoetrySometimes, when things seem to fall down, and when we can't seek help with picking the fallen pieces up, we tend to do it by ourselves in silence. I want for us to cease believing that we are just inconvenience for others. I wrote this book as raw a...
