HE

He doesn’t burn photographs,
He doesn’t join therapy sessions,
He doesn’t smoke too many cigarettes,
Nor he drown himself into alcohol,
He scratches his wounds daily,
And never let them heal,
He doesn’t try to get rid of the pain,
Instead he let it grow on him,
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears,
He feeds it with the manure of old memories,
He takes it to sleep with him,
And nurtures it in himself,
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain,
Until his fragile heart can bear no more,
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions,
That’s when he dip his pen into this pain,
And empty his heart on a piece of paper,
He bares his soul for us to feel,
He creates chaos that the world would cherish for centuries to come.