Words don’t lie, but silence cheats.
Thoughts locked in skulls grow heavy.
They rot there, in their own gloom.
Writing drags them out, naked.
Dish soap meets the rubber truth—
bubbles rise, the defect smiles.
Ideas burst wide, gaping voids.
You can't fix air you can't see.
In the mind, everything feels perfect.
Perfect lies, perfect fears, perfect traps.
Once you write, you meet the scar.
The drip, drip of your busted wheel.
There’s no veil on black ink's sheet,
no fantasy holding a steady hand.
Slather the page, let it speak.
Its screaming silence saves you again.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: January 25th, 2026 05:46
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 24
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship
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Comments3
So true Gray written words hold more truth words twisted in speech latter to be denied and excused as misunderstood taken out of context. On the page there is no going back only owning up to what one put down. A great write my friend
No going back brother! Thanks Soren
You are most welcome Gray
This hits like the sting of honesty you can’t ignore.
The work of writing becomes both wound and salve, and you feel every drip.
Thanks Thomas
Well written. Your poem explores themes of vulnerability, the difficulty of confronting one’s own truths, and the liberating power of language.
Thanks for sharing your feedback
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