All We Have Is Broken

Never have my thoughts been this scattered. Sitting down to write, it’s as if I belong to another world. Once I’ve sedated my brain with creativity, I type up the poem I’d written into my journal earlier. I pray this screaming kaleidoscope of pain won’t mar the good poetry I may write. That they won’t be affected by this poem’s tangible taste of oppression and hopelessness.

Echoing lost days of a childhood that should have been promised to me.

Hiding

They can’t tell, so what’s the big deal?

They can’t feel the pain that I feel.

Like living in hell, and no one can tell,

I hide it, but it’s so harsh and so real.

At night when I’m alone,

and hate is all they’ve shown,

I can’t sleep, all I do is weep,

and I’m so tired that I ache to the bone.

I feel anger and fear grating inside.

All I can do is hide.

If they knew they would scorn,

wish I weren’t born,

but I cover it all with my pride.