I am bleeding
Clear skies turning ghastly and grim in my hollowed eyes
The fever in my brain wins with every vanishing second
The blank pages of my barely written story
Stares at the vacuum that weighs me down
The pen moves not once in my cold hands
As tears washed my loneliness
Tonight, I write for myself
The words have turned against me
Gaping wounds I often revisit
Raw, unadulterated, ever vulnerable
Fuel the art of this damnation, of this craft
I ask them despite the broken voice in my head
What more do you need?
Life is poetry, poetry is life
But it has cut too deep, deep, deeper
I am burned too harshly by the words
It has opened newer, fresher wounds
Buried secrets, once unknown become known,
I come facing old adversaries who never left
Soon, my own words will destroy me
What I started, the ones I raised in my fragility
Will shred me into pieces as they take everything I have
*Worst of it all,
I will stay still and let them
The curse of loving and hating what you do