Poets who bleed through paper

To the youngster who noticed my inner warrior and advised me not to run and cry.

how can I conceal?

When my wounds serve as evidence that I lived

I participated in and survived the conflicts, and no one managed to catch me.

No trauma made me want to drown.

My fucks hurt so bad.

Nobody was saving me.

I continued to exist in the past. and eventually pass away.

We are not immortal; we die today or tomorrow.

But the strength of our imaginations is unmatched by that of a pen and paper.

You are the fighter, according to the writer in me.

Your advice is foreboding.

Even though you might have chosen a sword over a crown, you are not being reckless.