I was raised to keep my issues bottled

I live with a family where communication is a problem

Introverted pacifist, avoiding all confrontation

When I try to speak, I stutter, failing all articulation

Or worse, I speak, and it turns into an argument

A simple Sunday supper turned World War III battlement

Frustration overwhelming, I started to give up

But my mother kept inquiring, "Why can't you get up?"

Dark room, curtains drawn, blankets hiding a soul withdrawn

By my side, my trusty notebook, fallen tear stains not yet gone

Desperate for answers, she took a peak inside

And discovered more than she'd ever through conversations and cries

So it became our little arrangement for when I couldn't get out of bed

I would put poetry to pain and she'd read it like an MRI of my head

What I couldn't tell her, she could deduce from rough ink scratchings in my notebook

I revealed my trauma in stanzas, written by a hand that shook

I won't lie for a happy ending

There's still issues, progress pending

But on days where the sun does not rise

My pain is maintained through the poems that I write