hidden

hidden

and her vision blurs

as her throat tightens

with trembling hands

trapped inside a red screen

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will it ever get better?

will it ever get better?

we all tell ourselves that it’s gonna get better

that things are gonna turn around in the end

life will be beautiful

and we’re all gonna be contented

and have this permanent smile on our faces

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your poem.

your poem.

holding onto the thought of us feels like

talking to a rock, and wondering why it won’t answer back,

trying a hundred keys and still failing to open up the lock

it’s like a flood in the middle of a desert,

or like a hundred feelings one can’t assert

it can be punching a wall, hoping it won’t cause you pain

or wishing that you will not get your feet wet in a pouring rain

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