poetry

I will write in the darkness

with blood dripping

from the wound I didn’t

know existed —

forced open, or perhaps,

never stopped bleeding at all.

I will pour the poisoned

scarlet ink into the little

perfect paper until all

is filled of colors and words

and tears and dreams

and pain.

I will let the pen puncture

the paper, the way

it all punctures

innocent hearts, the way

it gashes simplicity

with hopeless dreams.

I will let the words spill

on pages after pages

until there wouldn’t be any more

pain and fears and tears

reflected in every word

but the words

and words alone.

H.A.M

041116

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