There are so many poems
About pain
The pain that swallows us whole
I wish I could write about love
And colours
And sunshine
Glitter and
Beautiful summer days
But then all I can see is the hurt
Trickling into the sweet
Like ink running on wet paper
One word into the next
Until it all resembles a smudge
And I realize that the wet on the paper
That made the ink run
Were tears
Drawn by the harsh, biting wind
That are the words
And memories I try and
Try to forget
So that is life, I guess
And poetry
And breathing
It's goodness and fullness
(Blue ink on a piece of torn paper)
And all the wishes and stars are
Only to cover up the
Pain
