I sit and write
The paper becoming marked.
My emotions,
My feelings,
My thoughts.
Modern pens aren't emotional
Aren't connected to the soul of the writer
They aren't what has told stories of love,
Loss ,
Fear ,
Death.
I use my dip pen
The perfect swirls of purple and clear glass.
I dip the ink in over and over.
Red.
I dip a little too deep, and the ink starts pouring
Red starts covering the page
My body
My heart won't stop bleeding
Why won't it stop
Why do I pour myself out
Every word is another jab into my heart to let the words flow.
I pour my heart out on these pages.
YOU ARE READING
Black Bubbles
PoetryShort poetry of the connected. I never once said it was great ⚠️ WARNING TO VIEWERS ⚠️ These stories may contain triggering topics such as gore, death, self-harm, heartbreak, sexual content, and loss.
