Writers 
DO I STAY
I made my hair
Yeah, sure.
I got a new set of clothes
Yeah, sure.
So why am I still sad?
Why does this sadness
feel engraved
deep into my soul?
Why can’t I be normal
like everyone else?
Then I ask myself,
again and again...
Do I stay?
When everything is messed up,
I wish I could talk to someone
someone who would listen,
someone who would give me
an immediate solution.
But when the silence answers back,
I ask myself again.
Do I stay?
People regret.
And maybe that’s why
they preach to me
to follow their path
so they won't have to look
like the bad ones.
But me?
Do I stay?
I keep trying to compose a story
when I don't even have an interesting headline,
no helper,
no one reaching out to say,
"I've got you."
I wasn't born into a rich family.
I don't steal.
I don't do fraud.
Yet somehow,
every man comes with the same offer
"Hey, pretty..."
"I believe you're matured."
Men letting their pride fall
just to name their price,
counting every cost
to get something from me.
And I ask myself again.
Do I stay?
Do I become a pawn
in their game,
only to face the repercussions alone?
Do I stay?
Do I work endlessly,
carrying all this silent pain,
all this trauma,
all these things
I never learned how to say?
Do I stay?
With tears covering my eyes,
each one threatening to fall,
I question my father.
I question my God.
I question myself.
Because lately,
I have begun to feel desperate and desperation is a dangerous thing to wear behind a smile .
So I mask it.
I laugh.
I dress up.
I fix my hair.
I tell everyone,
"Yeah, I'm fine."
But when the room goes quiet
and nobody is watching,
the question returns.
Louder.
Heavier.
Closer.
Do I stay?
Do I stay
when staying hurts?
Do I stay
when leaving scares me?
Do I stay
when I don't even know
what tomorrow looks like?
I don't know.
But tonight,
I'm still here.
Still breathing.
Still asking.
Still searching
for a reason
to believe that maybe
just maybe
there is more waiting for me
than this pain.
So I ask one more time
Do I stay?
