We Have A Voice Too

To Know.

To think is to know,

As to talk is to think.

To speak we have to think,

To think thoughts we supposably know.

Yet, I don't know.

I am confused.

A confused writer is to not enjoy,

The pen to the paper

As words flow from her brain,

To the bright red ink,

Drowning on the paper.

I am a writer, - A poet.

Drowning in her own thoughts.

Words need to be said.

But no one is willing to listen.

No one will listen to a border line depressed poet,

A depressed writer,

Willing to risk it.

Risk going against her parents to be;

Heard.

Risking, putting her heart out,

Taking the pain of others.

Putting my own happiness, below others,

I don't need to be happy.

They do.

They don't deserve to be hurt.

Over not being heard.

They don't deserve to want to die.

Because they think no one cares.

I, am a way, for them

To be heard.

But the real question is,

Are you willing to listen?