It wonders me why some people
are scared of the dark.
As if daggers might spring out
from every corner of the shadows,
and stab them repeatedly
until they'll bleed out.
But not me.
I'm not scared of it.
I'm not terrified at all.
I dress it like a night gown,
and wrap it around me like a blanket,
and inhale it like an oxygen.
I can find myself in the dark.
Not a vague reflection,
but a clear silhouette of who I am.
My sanity stays with me,
and no one is trying to snatch it away;
I never have to pretend.
It must be poignant and wretched
that I am safe where others are not,
that I can see colors in the dark,
and no one is trying to pursue me,
except my own demons,
except my own ragged breath.
YOU ARE READING
Dark and Beautiful
PoetrySometimes my thoughts and hand bleed so much poetry I can barely stop them from leaking onto the paper. But sometimes, too, my heart bleeds too much blood that I couldn't write poetry anymore.
