I write agony,
they call it poetry.
I write myself letters,
they call it fiction.
They see the books and call me a writer,
but all I see is a woman
loathing in her own blood—
a woman unable to speak,
too proud to ask for help,
still gathering the blood
dripping from the very hand
that refuses to heal.
-
Author:
Meera Mere (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 15th, 2025 09:59
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 46
- Users favorite of this poem: Meera Mere, Bragee
Offline)
Comments4
Entering the middle of the story this poem speaks of injury but the cause unknown. This mystery leaves interest and curiosity. Dark it speaks of agony and pain. Well done
thanks!!!
Most welcome
Writing has always provided me with a sense of therapy. Even though people say how they love it I’m really just releasing my pain on paper.
Good writing!
Exactly...
May that healing come to you soon Meera, life is too good to stay in that way, help is there for us all.
Andy
Only one word- WOW!
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.