I suck at poetry,
I have no ingenuity.
I can not spare the time,
To create any kind of rhyme.

Yet I must try to find,
A better way to use my mind.

Surely this is better,
Than leaving a letter.
I can't show them the dark,
And risk leaving a mark.

Yet I ask why can't I
When they're making me cry.

They look at my heart,
Tear out all of the part
That stops my crying
That keeps me from falling.

Yet I can still stand,
Though I'm not in command.

These animals
Pound on my walls.
Seemingly made
To leave me frayed.

Left unspoken,
I am broken.