Survive

A picture speaks a thousand words,
and yet the pen is mightier than the sword.
So now I write a million poems,
and draw a billion pictures.

But no one speaks of actions.
What is mightier than that?
What portrait shows a trillion actions?
What story tells a hundred lies?

My tales speak of sorrow and destruction,
my sketches show the blood and pain.
My tears flow for straying memories,
my sobbing cries out for the long-lost times.

I know I should be joyful,
without you in my life,
but truth is, all I can do,
is to rage and to cry.

For a decade you taught me how to survive,
you taught to be silent, be obedient, not to cry.
For a decade I was at your beck and call,
and you taught me to stand up as I fall.

And I know that you shouldn't have shown me that,
and you should've held me instead.
But that is not who you're meant to be,
and truth is, that is not who'll father me.

I'm starting to realize you're a waste of space,
and I shouldn't waste my tears and cries,
on something as small and little as you,
or the horrible things that you'll forever do.

So these are my last words I'll ever write to you,
and they're not asking ''how do you do?''
Nor are they telling you to be safe,
for, if I know you, that'll be the case.

No, these words are a thank-you to you,
and as said, not for the horrible things that you do,
but for what you taught me: how to survive,
with no one around on whose's shoulder to cry.