Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

It's never the what. 
it's always the who,
Fingers point with purpose, but never seek the truth.
Quick to judge, quick to name,
But never ask what sparked the flame.

They craft their verdicts with blind eyes,
While the real Judge watches from behind the skies.
And trust me
The cracked glass holds more than they think.
It shines under pressure,
And leaks when it’s on the brink.

To the eye, it looks whole, flawless, complete,
But inside, it’s aching under every heartbeat.
Small fractures left ignored,
Until one day, they roar.

It takes time.
It takes courage.
But no one ever wants to know the cost.
They speak like life is equal,
But they don’t see what I’ve lost.

1°C outside,
But my body’s burning over 40.
Sweating in the cold
And no one ever asks what’s hurting me.

They say:
“Write your story. Shape your path.”
But they keep dragging me back
To old chapters, old wounds,
To match a theme they chose for me.

But this pen is mine.
These pages are mine.
And I’ll write the story,
even if I bleed between the lines.