People would tell you they know you inside out,
While having no clue about the storms you carry within,
You feel its rage in every shred of your skin but they never know,
Cause they weave stories about like you were a picture prompt,
Never really caring about what you really mean and actually think,
Cause they consider their imagination your reality.
They collect your self worth for you like sea shells and throw it out the moment they reach home,
Leaving nothing but splinters behind.
They’d call you a hater a misanthrope, they’d ask you why don’t you love,
But how would you tell them that you already emptied all you had and more,
That you’re exhausted both literally and figuratively.
They’d call you out for making a poker face while they throw words like arrows at you,
Only you know you were biting back tears cause your sorrow is pathetic to them.
They tell you that their words fall on deaf ears,
But they do not know that you question your self worth every night.
That you’re trying to build piece by piece, with faith and patience but they don’t let you have any.


2 thoughts on “Storms

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