I could be seventeen or  I could be seventy.
I could be in a crowd or somewhere all alone.
I could have something to reach out other than only my thoughts or maybe not.
I could be screaming out to you or I could be gagging.
I could, I should, I most probably would.
But I fear my voice would be really feeble.
I fear I might be too far away, in terms of both earshot and attention.
I will still try reaching out with that muffled voice.
But I fear you will not be able to hear.

My tears, your lullaby

I can cry you a river, I can drown you in its sea,
I can be what scares you but that won't really be me.
Spice is what I always brought,
Salt is what you always sought,
You said it's not always sugar and spice and all that's nice,
So how are these a constant; my wounds and this salt and ice?