I don't write about it Or maybe I can't The cloak of cowardice wrapped around the tip of my pen Restricts the ink of my sorrow to flow But I'm a human There's only so much I can contain within myself Only so much I can bear Before it overflows, and this acute agony needs an immediate outlet Streams of tears glistening in the moonlight A sight so poetic The suffering, not so much So I talk to myself To the dull white walls of this room To something, Because the idea of talking to someone seems terrifying Would they love me if I show them that I'm not who they think I am? But I need an escape From this burning grief inside me From myself I can forgive other people, I can be kind to them But myself? Never I don't think I deserve it.