A pen that’s bled a thousand lines,
yet pages crumble, left behind.
Each thought I shape, each verse I weave,
feels lost before another’s eye can truly see.
Write, they say—write and bleed,
let the ink meet every need.
But what if lines just fall apart?
What if they never reach a heart?
Doubt is heavy, it presses deep,
like restless waves of ink that never cease.
Yet still, I carve, though lost in night,
a whispered truth, a fleeting light.
And maybe no one sees or knows,
no echoes where the silence grows—
but if one soul should pause and stay,
"Then all this weight was worth the fray."
Everyone writes. Ideas that take shape, yet doubt lingers, and words crumble before they ever truly see the light.
