Drafts (89)

My drafts are full of fragmented poetry, unfinished letters, and half made lists 

The words I leave on the page, a metaphorical slitting of my wrists.

 

The words are sharp like knives, cutting deep throughout my skin

The blood that stains my fingers holds the secrets of my kin. 

 

My suitable writing published, given permission to be known

The explicit content buried in a version on my phone

 

I share my vulnerability, or so I lead you to believe

My confessions are works of art, crafted to deceive 

 

In my notes I write to God and scream fuck you to the world 

Like every ache that pains me is somehow undeserved.

 

I craft verses crying loudly about the relationships I’ve lost

I remember what I’ve gained, and how I'm still paying the cost. 

 

I treat the pages like a graveyard, the words I lay to rest

The better they consume the page, the less I will suppress.

 

The contents of my broken soul unveiled for all to see 

This gossip mill works overtime, no getting off scot - free

 

In my drafts I pour my heart out, it’s God’s honest truth,

I don’t know whether to share them or not, I guess now it’s time to choose. 

 

I’ve censored the revealing parts, the lines that give me away. 

But I think it’s clear the message I am trying to convey. 

 

If you think I write about you, the truth is you’re probably right, 

I always write about the things that keep me up at night. 

 

By biggest fears laid out before you, an offering at your feet

I’m begging you to hear them before I hit delete.

 

Play the judge and the jury, the executioner if you must

But promise my sentence will be swift, if punishment is just.