When tears fall down my face,
Not because I’m weak,
But because I’ve held too much inside,
You call me weak.
When I hide my feelings,
And keep everything to myself,
You call me strong.
So I turn to the things
That don’t ask questions:
My pillow, that listens as I cry,
Songs, that make the pain feel less lonely,
And my blade,
To feel a little less of everything.
And yet,
These feel like the only things
That truly understand.
YOU ARE READING
Trapped in my own head
PoetryShe is an outcast. She finds it easier to express what she feels in the form of writing. Whether it is poems, letters or long texts. These are poems that she writes trying to describe how it feels to live with certain mental health issues, in a worl...
