I used to say what I felt, But no one listened to me talk. So I turned my voice into paper, And my pain in ink. I wrote it all while standing in the rain, Watching the paper deform, Hoping that someone will realize, I stopped talking all along. I said I was rain in mid July, Hot but cold at the same time. They called it poetic, I called it cosmetic - They loved the rhyme, ignored the cry, so apathetic. But at the same time, they never asked why, They never looked past the rhyme, To see the storm in every line. And it felt like a crime, Letting out what I was feeling inside. So.... I stopped writing too, Wanting to see if someone will notice how the silence was settling too. And...... They didn't. So I became A metaphor too deep to name.