My silence doesn't mean that I have nothing to say, it means that I'm tired, tired of fighting, tired of feeling, tired of breathing. I'm so tired of not being heard, and being ignored. My skin is like a paper, it tears easily, and if you keep ripping it there will be nothing left to write on. Everyday I sit I'm there while you tear the paper again and again, helpless to stop it. I keep calling out for someone, anyone, but no one listens, and no one hears. My heart is like a vase. Fragile. It you keep dropping it one day it's going to break. You can try to glue it back to gather but it won't ever be the same. There will always be pieces missing, even if it's small and hard to see, it's still gone. My mind is like a branch, step on it and it will surely snap. My silence means you stepped on the branch, and it's about to snap.
YOU ARE READING
Vent Poems
PoetrySo I like creative writing and I decided to make a book with writings/Poems I write
