Scribbles on these pages, ink spilled, hearts that bleed,
Torn sides of a page, a story of hurt indeed.
A blood-written note, an apology untrue,
For something she never did, a tale cruel.
Look what you made her do, a heavy burden to bear,
In the scars of her words, you'll find her despair.
The weight of false blame, it's a heavy load,
In this story of pain, the truth slowly unfolds.
YOU ARE READING
It's Still 12a.m.
PoetryAs the clock's final whisper embraced the dying day, darkness enveloped my room. Raindrops danced upon the fog-kissed windowpane. In the gentle glow of a dimmed lamp, I sat at my table, pen poised to capture the thoughts that flowed from the depths...
