My pain is not the turn into art kind,
the what doesn't kill you makes you stronger kind.
it is the back bent and hurricane came and went kind,
the” look how ruined you” are kind.
the you survived but see how fragile you are!!!,
not in a delicate way
in a violent and burnt ash kind of way.
Dear God!!!
you do not look me in the eye and tell me it was a necessary evil to leave me helpless and void,
wash away my sins?
What was my crime?
being born?
My trauma is not a turn into song kind,
write poetry and chase fireflies kind
it is horror film and a haunted house.
You watched the little girl I was fold her hands to pray
you watched me extend my hands to be saved,
and you said
“here is your character development plot”
The character dies in the end,
and there's no moral to this story.
The poet destroys the poem
and there is nothing be read,
sometimes what doesn't kill you
leaves you hoping an asteroid hits the earth in a tender way
and everything burns including your anger,
including this rage.