From old wounds I drip onto a page. The paper absorbs the essence of my being. I am cut by words that were spoken by people I thought were my friends With a pen they cut me, deep to the core. Their tongues lashed me and left me sorely wounded. I bound up my injuries with bandages of hope. They were like thin sheets of linen but they were all I had. Now as I try to find a way to write, the words spill onto the page. The old wounds are reopened and I am bleeding again. Laughter turns to sorrow and to a sonnet. Tragedy becomes madness as I pen down my emotions in blood. All that I wanted is gone and all that I didn't ask for has found it's way into my soul. How can I hold onto reality anymore? I seem to only have a grasp on truth when I bleed onto the paper and let my emotions flow free.