Does suicide really have the power of killing someone?
or is it us who kill them from the very first?
its not the suicide nor blades that kills,
its the words we fireaway without thinking what other people would feel.
Its not bad to be mean, if you really are one
but when will we realize that life's too short to keep on spitting rude things to other people?
how many suicidal acts does it take to open our eyes to reality, that its the words that kills?
what if... behind those judgement that you utter, is a hidden tragic story of someone else's life?
what if the one you call 'nerd' is suffering from social anxiety?
what if the one you call 'as poor as rat' is saving the last peso for her/his mother's medication?
what if someone you dissed 'die, bitch die' is trying to draw painting in her wrists everynight... crying themselves to sleep alone?
what if...
what if someone who's trying to help you to get over your fears,
your illness or disease
is actually,
actually dying?
what if im dying?
what if im not?
*this isnt really a poem, it is an open letter... idk i tried to turn it to a poetry
YOU ARE READING
Behind A Smile//poetry
PoetryThis is a poem collection not a story. In able to write; let them see not just through your heart, but also through your soul.
