Words on a paper,
black and scratchy;
scribbled by a pen,
held by a hand,
excited but hesitant.
The mouth couldn't utter,
so the hand scribbled on paper.
But it was a grievous mistake,
to conjure evidence
of the mind's schemes.
Two ashamed eyes seek for eraser,
but the ink was permanent,
and so was the damage.
Someone had seen it,
and tearing the paper was useless-
the damage has been done.
Nothing is clean now,
not even the paper or the thoughts.
Nothing is clean now,
especially not the soul.
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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.
