I carve love into paper
like it might resurrect me,
like if I write it beautifully enough
someone will finally believe I'm worth keeping.
Each line a quiet offering,
each stanza a piece of my ribs
laid gently at someone else's feet -
hoping they'll call it sacred
instead of disposable.
But I remain -
a beautiful tragedy,
something admired from a distance,
something felt for a moment
and forgotten just as softly.
Written in ink that never fades,
yet never chosen to live
outside of the page.
Always the poet
never the poem.
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Author:
Nevermore (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 5th, 2026 00:29
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 4
Offline)
Comments2
There is deep emotion in this one where one is appreciated for one's works but not for who they are. Well written
Well done
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