Simply words, without meaning,  
in a partly empty book.  
An empty page, not yet written,  
takes its time to fill the look.

Naming past and naming future  
the pain, the joy, the tears.  
And always, in some fragile echo,  
My deepest pain appears.

A lonely tree, a tree without its branches,  
Stands in a forest laced with hidden trenches.
  
With every ache, another leaf falls down,  
A breeze picks up and goes without a sound.
  
A forest, so big but yet so detached,  
Where the beauty is seen and pain unmatched.

The air inside my lungs,
The blood inside my veins,
The happiness inside me.

The crack inside my heart,
The teardrops from my eyes,
The emptiness inside of me.

Just a continent in your world,
Just a shadow in your peace,
Just a fraction of your heart.

Just a moment in your life,
Just a tear in your ocean,
Just a name lost in your heart.

I stitched this poem from borrowed pain,
Just in case you feel the same.

Words are windows to a secret place,
To a heart no longer a safe space.

Words are fragile windows, cracked and worn,
To secret rooms where hearts are torn.

Words are windows with a beautiful view,
But behind the glass, the pain they never knew.

My pages hold the parts of me I lost,
Pain truly carried a heavy cost

It is a tragedy, so young and yet her eyes so wise,
As if she saw her world burn twice.

I never thought of myself as a writer
Because I never found the words to describe myself

I thought of myself as an artist
Because I could bleed my pain so beautifully

So I painted my silence
And called it a poem

An empty casket
Carried by bony shoulders

Not ready to be burried
The dead man carries

His own burden
Empty and lost

to his grave
without a name

no soul to cry
no tear was shed

Just him
and an empty casket