I write of love, my words soft as blooming flowers, outshining the silence. They drink from my verses, offering praise, yet never seeing through hollow eyes. They trace my ink with their pens, searching between the lines, yet always missing the rot woven into the rhymes. I only ever meant to heal, to imagine a world that would never falter. But as echoes tremble and shatter, the voices grow louder in my wake. Hearts lie broken along my path, split and bruised, marked by both my hands and the words I chose. The tales I spun, the dreams I wove, just layers of silk concealing the screams of the past. Each whispered line, each lullaby sung, was a betrayal wrapped in delicate deception. I thought I gave my all, shining bright, yet I only ever left them shattered and cold. A poet’s sin, unknowingly blind. Now, the weight of it all is too much to bear, even my own hand too heavy to hold. The ink thickens, choking the page, my verses darkened by buried rage. I once believed myself gentle, kind, a guiding light for even the quietest of minds. But I was blind to the wounds I inflicted, to the trust I fractured, left to wither in the dark. Each tear they shed, I was the reason why. I swore I loved, I swore I cared, yet I was the reason they were afraid. I was begged to change, yet failed to see where the cracks needed mending. Blind to the truth, I led them further away. And now, regret clings to me like a ghost, whispering of what could have been, of a future where things might have been okay. Every poet holds a secret, buried deep within their lines, whether the ink glows faint as a whisper or bleeds dark as sin.
