I only know vagaries. I know not what I ought to. I speak less than I think, words don't form how they ought to. But I never complain. Voices never go out in my head.

To suffer is to experience poetry. To portray the pain is to create art. To meld poetry and pain into one is to be an artist.

I know what pain is, how poetry accentuates our struggles like diamonds embellishing a ring.

But if we decorate our canvas of hardships, who puts an end to it?

Who sees reason? Who voices valid concerns?

I am not one of them. I do not wish to end it. If there's an escape, maybe I am too blind to see it. Once I feared being numb, now I don't feel anything at all.