Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?
How do I relieve myself of these emotions, If not by bleeding myself on paper? How do I express myself to the world, If not by baring myself for everyone to see? What is my comfort, if not being vulnerable with words? Where do I go, if not to pen and paper? To whom do I share my happiness, sadness, My sorrows, and guilt? Where do I let out my anger, Before it turns me cold and sharp? Where do I pour out the storm, Before it drowns me? Tell me, what do I do, If not write?
Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?
©Pen_Pain_Poetry
a beautiful broken promise.
Promise.
The word is forced to contain secrets.
But, what if?
what if a person runs out of promises?
when there are too many to keep and there is too much inside?
when all the promises she broke hurts her?
when each and every promise she broke, haunts her, every night, till the end ?
when the broken promises, like broken glass, tears her apart from inside?
until she bleeds. bleeds to death.
too tired to make another promise.
What do I aspire to be ?
A walking contradiction.
My red flag is isolating myself when life gets dark and messy. I'd stay silent, pull away, push those I love away and hide. But, it's also when I crave being found the most, where I long for a heartfelt conversation and pay attention to every gesture of kindness.
You were my home.
My salvation.
My anchor.
And when you left,
I crumbled.
to the ruins.
the pain wasn't worth it .
messed up.again .
Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies
— Henry Dumas, Knees of a Natural Man: The Selected Poetry of Henry Dumas; "Saba"