I fill this pen with blood red ink,
The paper bleeds, but helps me think,
I pour my soul upon the sheet,
It stills my heart and slows its beat,
Each word is wrought of misery,
Each space, a breath I cannot breathe,
each stroke, a cut upon my heart,
Each line a wound that leaves a scar,
But when I'm done with this, you see,
I'm dead inside, but finally free.
YOU ARE READING
A collection of poetry
PuisiA collection of poetry. It may not always be what you want to read, but its always real. Cover made by Shannon Hughes, a.k.a @LavendarEyes.
