Just a random poem I wrote which I wanted to share with everyone since it's real:
The greatest lie a writer tells,
Is that their words are born from spells.
For every tale they twist and bend,
Is pain they cannot quite defend.
That child crying in the dead of night,
Is me, alone without a light.
The hands that bruise, the voices sharp,
Are mine, carved deep within the dark.
The tears that fall in silence, still,
Are mine, as time refuses to heal.
The broken soul, the shattered heart,
Are pieces torn, worlds pulled apart.
I write of pain I cannot name,
Of ghosts that haunt me, just the same.
The bruises on my skin you see,
Are memories locked, too raw to flee.
Each word I write is born of fear,
A scream too soft for you to hear.
The love I crave, the love I lost,
Is buried deep, no matter cost.
So when you read, don't turn away,
Know that the child inside will stay.
The words I write, the ache you feel,
Are wounds I bleed but can't reveal.
In every line, a part of me,
A fractured soul you’ll never see.
The pain I mask, the truth I keep,
Is mine alone, buried so deep.
