POETRY.

If I were to be a therapist
I would've been tired of my own story
Those tears and spilted voices
Coming out from my lips
Painted with the natural lip gloss my nose gave it
Those words of misery
Condemnation and rejection proclaiming it self to my heart
Those lips of unfortunate souls
Sharing my pain like a premium gist
A symbol of misery clothed upon my very self .

Isolating the joy in me
Bringing out my pain to those losed lips
I buried my joy in the Chambers of pain
Who would listen to me without telling another
God is not on earth
Who would chew my pain and make me swallow joy
If suicide was not a sin .

Those letters I poured out
Those words on the watery books
That dried My lips and made my eyes white
Arranging every bit of words
Carelessly leaving them on the books
With my heart Sorrowfully dancing into jubilation .

I started naming every words into constructed poetic sentences
I realised that my voice were high
High enough to seal my lips
My pain were no longer known .

Poetry removed my casket
It made me remove those ropes from my kitchen
Using them to dry my faded clothes
Years and decades awaits me .

You pay for therapy
I pay for lines
If poetry was human
How glad would my joy be .