Some mornings I wish,
That the ink would run dry.
-And my thoughts were again invisible,
To the naked eye.
The more of me I spill,
The more they think they know.
These pages slowly kill,
Yet effortlessly they flow.
A wounded poet,
A tortured shell of long before.
I carry the burden well,
But it frightens me to my core.
While I’m tongue tied and battered,
The pen is well spoken.
My heart has long been shattered,
I still masquerade it as unbroken.
The story behind my eyes,
Is far too consuming.
It’s hard to revel in the sunshine,
With such darkness always looming.