I do not write about the joys of life
Or the calm and gentle quiet of nature.
There is too much faked joy in the world.

I do not write about love and loss.
I dare not tug at the fragile threads
That bind old wounds in rememberance.

I do not write about worldly truths
And the fallacies that we are often told.
I have forgotten them ― outgrown.

I do not write about my thoughts
For fear that I cannot find the words to fit
And that my mind will soon consume me.

I do not write ― I bleed.