When I look over my wrist to see what poetry
I’ve missed, I see the dried ink now—
It’s darker, no longer pouring from the pen.
It’s unusable. Some would say broken.
I look over my thighs and what they had to hide—
Scars no one has seen, no one has read.
That poetry remains untouched.
I look over my stomach and waist,
Where little secrets hide every day.
But I wish it were wrong, that it was a lie—
That when I say I haven’t tried to end my book without a goodbye,
I wish it weren’t true.
I wish I could say I’ve tried to keep writing, to keep going on.
But some poetry you read over again,
And it still stings. It still pulls you in—
Like the dark that conceals the night,
Or the shadow that never ends.
My poetry will keep going on,
For I’m the only one who reads it.
And when it comes to my work,
I don’t know about you—
But I scratch out line after line,
Wanting it to be perfect.
By that time, it’s a sticky mess,
Red ink dripping from my wrist.
Yes, I do write.
Yes, only for me.
Because I’m the only one who has the key to my diary.
I’m the only one who holds the pen.
The only one who knows all about my unread poetry.
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Author:
Violet_Writes (
Offline) - Published: September 17th, 2025 08:12
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship, arqios
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Comments5
Well said. Your poem revolves around the personal struggle of an individual with their creative process and the intimate relationship they have with their writing. The speaker grapples with feelings of despair and the desire for perfection in their poetry while acknowledging that their work remains largely unshared and unread by others. The subject matter touches upon themes of isolation, self-expression, and the inherent imperfections of the creative process.
We are often our own harshest critics and are too hard on ourselves. Love must begin with loving ourselves and this poem echoes themes of internal pain and judgement that is so harsh that it bleeds. A deeply emotional write.
You touched ar least part of me.
For who knows the things of a man, save the spirit of man which is in him?
This poem powerfully portrays writing as a deeply personal, sometimes painful, yet healing process, a dialogue between the self and one’s inner life. Nicely written.
A beautiful expression Violet_Writes worded exquisitely 🙏🏻🕊️
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