Your Lungs filled with cement, your feet like bricks.

Your ears, open doors to shameless words of hurt.

Eyes always watching but never friendly.

Tearing you piece by piece,

Layer by layer,

In a cycle of silent torture,

This is my pain,

Nobody listens, all they see is different,

Unusable in their world of external glamour.

They don't understand my manner,

I only have one value to them,

Looks, looks, looks,

No books time for bed,

Rest that broken head,

Your art is dead,

Unconventional,

You're a trophy wife meant to be wed,

These words have been said,

Then I picked a pen,

Transforming ugly words into beautiful ones,

I am not poet they said,

I am not a writer they cried,

I am not blank,

I have depth,

I am not loud but quiet,

My poems are my thoughts,

My feelings, my pain,

I’ve gained,

I am more, I am strange,

I am a poet, ,

My mind the machinery,

My heart the ammo,

My pen the weapon,

There will be no silence,

Sincerely the trophy wife