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Rori Panchan Poem
Tired. Tired of writing my name on a page, a name I don't want, a name they call me to taunt.
I'm tired, tired of pretending, I want to cry and scream but no one listens to my pleas, I want to hit and yell but they just talk, like I'm a joke to tell.
I'm tired, tired of hiding, faking a laugh so they don't see me crying, tired of being lied to, like telling the truth would curse you.
I'm tired, tired of this pain, The razor cutting my skin as I drift away, blood seeping from my skin, my head starting to spin.
I'm tired, physically, mentally and emotionally. Tired of your games, the ones I'm forced to play, until you get bored and I'm left in one of your hoards.
I'm tired, tired of life, wishing to die but in the end...I just cry, cut and write goodbyes that won't happen until another lifetime.
I'm tired, tired of crying, lying on my unmade bed, hoping these tears are the last ones to be shed.
These demons in my head urging me to stop my breath, to hurry up to my death. I'm tired, so please let me rest.
Copyright © Rori Panchan | Year Posted 2026
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Rori Panchan Poem
Was it my fault? My fault that the wolf was stalking me as prey, walking my way, behind me?
My fault so much that I was fined?
As if what I was wearing signed ME, for this pain, for this rage barely contained?
"What were you wearing?" They ask, but does that matter?
The wrapper doesn't matter to the predator as long as they get to capture the prey, the food, soothing their moods.
So was it really my fault for the crime that occurred?
or because you'd rather blame the prey for the monster's mistake?
for the crime scene on the streets?
for the people talking while the wolf hides behind trees, waiting for his next prey.
Copyright © Rori Panchan | Year Posted 2026
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Rori Panchan Poem
To dust, The old boxes in the attic, the old toys in the basement, they turn to dust as they stay forgotten, the cotton rabbit going rotten. The boxes taped close, as if reopened they'd grow and Molden. the small bed in the room, needing dusting, the frames rusting and the sheets clustering. the pictures turned down, the stand broken and the glass broken, the frame cracked and dusted. The kid in this room loved it, but moved out for peace, getting a lease and building a life, new bed, new pictures, new boxes and new toys for the kids they had themselves, and soon enough that kid's room will dust too. Not in dirtiness but in affection, showing how much it was looked in, slept and cried in, and used. SO if you dust it don't throw out the boxes, don't resell the toys, don't throw out the broken pictures and please don't dismantle the bed, leave it to be, leave the memories fly around, leave it as a museum until the kid comes into that house, picking that same room, using that same bed, ripping those same boxes and playing with those same toys. To dust, is to love.
Copyright © Rori Panchan | Year Posted 2026
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Rori Panchan Poem
We are children. Our eyes can see, we witness the horrors you say to keep between you and me. We are children. Our ears can hear, we hear the screams we cannot bear. We are children. our lips can taste, we taste the blood that was drained. From your hands, the marks like a brand. We are children. Our minds can think, we'll think of how to escape before you can blink. We are children. Our bodies are ours, not for the wolves who take and devour. We are children. We're smarter than you think, we'll scream until we hit the brink. We are children. So let us be free, and than we'll rest in peace.
Copyright © Rori Panchan | Year Posted 2026
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Rori Panchan Poem
My enemy is...myself. Why? because at 8 i look in the mirror and smile, fascinated at my own face but now i look and see myself with hate.
I see my mind as the threat, the voice in my head was lurking, and it WASN'T kind.
I see my scars as a prison, people say to draw stars but all i see are metal bars burned in my arms.
I see my identity as an ugly mask, having to hide as if it was a normal task.
I see my future like a curse, knowing it will get worse. all i want is to reverse.
i see people as a fear, feeling like i'm being threatened with a spear every time they are near.
But i see the child i used to be, standing right in front of me, asking me "can you hear me?", but i block it out, as i begin to walk.
Copyright © Rori Panchan | Year Posted 2026
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