Cut open that wound, scarred and charred.
The gush of blood — even then, still runs red.
I am what I am, monologue of a rogue.
The class act he holds bears no shape,
true to his soul.
Demons of the past laid webs so vast.
In rest or in war, they mock this mind
when it loses track.
The fear of being torn — in fine lines it was told.
Worn as if it were norm,
like an autumn tree in storm.
The player got played;
the trickster on stage whispered,
“Stay clear of the sage
who veers your rage.”
Every breath a gasp,
each thought a task.
Forgotten smiles
gave birth to a grin, dark and stark.
And the thought it left —
of a truer self —
spilled blood on heavy‑laden hands,
to rise from sunken sand.
—Quiet Poet
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 3:55 PM UTC
Cut open that wound, scarred and charred.
The gush of blood — even then, still runs red.
I am what I am, monologue of a rogue.
The class act he holds bears no shape,
true to his soul.
Demons of the past laid webs so vast.
In rest or in war, they mock this mind
when it loses track.
The fear of being torn — in fine lines it was told.
Worn as if it were norm,
like an autumn tree in storm.
The player got played;
the trickster on stage whispered,
“Stay clear of the sage
who veers your rage.”
Every breath a gasp,
each thought a task.
Forgotten smiles
gave birth to a grin, dark and stark.
And the thought it left —
of a truer self —
spilled blood on heavy‑laden hands,
to rise from sunken sand.
—Quiet Poet