3d
Pen touches paper’s silent stripes,
Women struck by ******’s vice.
Each etching their nails to scar—
One verse more sharp by far.
We trade their wounds for cadence,
Their silence for a rhyme.
Our ink absolves no bodies,
Just stains the frame in mind.
Is every poet a criminal,
Who can’t resist or cease?
Shall we erase this hunger,
Or name it as disease?
Women struck by ******’s vice.
Each etching their nails to scar—
One verse more sharp by far.
We trade their wounds for cadence,
Their silence for a rhyme.
Our ink absolves no bodies,
Just stains the frame in mind.
Is every poet a criminal,
Who can’t resist or cease?
Shall we erase this hunger,
Or name it as disease?
This poem delves into the complex relationship between the artist and their subject, questioning whether the act of transforming any human experience into art, driven by the artist's emotions, risks turning it into a kind of caricature
