I lied.
I said I don't care,
but I suffer every night.
I bleed on paper
to keep me from bleeding out.
I try to forget,
I try to forgive,
I try to live.
But I can't, can I?
Not without bleeding on paper.
Without writing my soul out for everyone to see,
letting every feeling escape- every feeling you cut into my heart.
But it's okay.
You made me create masterpieces.
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Author:
Aven:) (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: February 27th, 2026 02:54
- Comment from author about the poem: This is not good, but it describes my love for writing, to feel.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 18
Online)
Comments3
Poetry is a tender lie .
Poetry is everything
Poetry can not exist without deep feeling be it good or bad it must be exquisite. Blood as ink serves the purpose well.
Exactly!!
Out of pain comes words that release that pain, without life's experiences we cannot write. Writing is a wonderful way of exorcising those demons and built up feelings, enjoyed the read
Exactly!!
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