When you look at me,
You may perceive, whilst seeing
my bed composed of flowers.
Knowing not how difficult it is,
I hesitate before lying down on it;
to admit, to keep my body from being pierced.

I'm known for being a story teller.
Many think, though I'm not, that I'm one
of the story tellers.
My intention is to deceive with my pen.
Make up my feelings,
Having tears that aren't visible,
Despite the struggle I wander through,
I tried all I could so the pain could be crystal, but Nay.

Yes, I’m a man who have been
stuck in the heart of a wildfire.
There are many hills to climb,
Descend from the spire’s dizzying heights,
The obnoxious cry was ignored,
Soft whispers can be heard late at night,
Despite the noisy ear-busting yell.

Being a man is an adventure,
I walk barefooted on scorching rocks,
some of which sliced through my flesh,
on a painful trek,
No one seems to mind if I bleed or not,
Like a lone lion, I planned to journey alone.

Yes, I'm a poet, and it's my
responsibility to make others happy.
It gives me great pleasure to
relieve others of their misery.
But I'm misunderstood and forgotten,
I've been lonely all night, and
my piece can speak for itself.

©® Chris S. Suah 2021