Drawn to the tension between silence and emotion, her poetry reflects the fragile beauty of being human—their existential thoughts and emotional depths. Through her writing she tries to capture what lingers unsaid; the art of feeling deeply, quietly.
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They cut your wings before you could fly. They took every piece of you, yet still called you selfish when you tried to keep your bones. Forsaking the fountain of your hopes, you lost yourself before you even knew who you were. Everyday was a battle against life — a war
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I looked at the world through rose coloured glasses, A world so small, Yielding beauty that some have bypassed. We took it for granted, Growing pride in our hearts, Blinded by the greed and hatred we've planted. I am looking at the world through tearstained lenses, A world
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In the arena of art, I played a woeful part. Hiding my truth behind this pretence, I prayed the mask might shield me. But when the music faded, and the lights burned out, I saw — it wasn't the mask that hid me; it was me, all along. In
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Misery masked itself as pleasure, Darkness portrayed itself as art. Or so I believed, naive, unaware — Your words pierced straight through my heart, Time drenched in the agony left behind. The lips that praised me, no longer did — Instead they whispered false pretence. The hands that welcomed me, no longer
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I hide away from you like a shadow that thrives on its own. I watched you spiraled into a void with no return — Still, I beg time to free me from this misery. Who are you, I wonder — What has become of you? Your eyes no longer glisten with the
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We write, we bleed, Of things we dare not feel. We hope, we yearn, Yet silence is all we earn. Must a bird only reach the sky, Before we shall say it can fly? Or must a star shine as bright as the moon, For its beauty to be seen
Life is a trial, A stage crowded with tales, Where we act, wearing masks and veils. Life is a trial, One we cannot win. Some alter, some change, Trying to fool the jury of time and age. But the Judge watches silently; Unbiased, impartial. Master of our Fate, Anchor of
Poets are innocent fools. Feeling more though reality forbids, We cling onto what may never be — Chasing the lie of a merciful end. Poets are innocent fools. Hiding behind the pages we bleed, Shielding our aches in rhyme and metaphor — With a hunger the world cannot feed. Longing to be
I stared at the distant hollow eyes, Searching for a shred of hope. My palms pressed against the glass, Praying it would reach out to me. Calling out its name, And begging to be heard, My cries were lost in the silence That screamed back without a word. The face