deepundergroundpoetry.com
Dripping in Ink
I stare at my pen as if it’s a bloody dagger from Hell;
Unsure of what may pour out from the other side.
Am I scared . . .
Anxious . . .
Angry . . .
What am I afraid of?
Why am I choosing to not to unveil my truth?
I Have so much to say and this pen . . .
This dagger from hell is my therapy. My safe haven.
So why do I hide from it? Run from it?
Don’t make time for it?
When this bloody dagger from hell is my solace; my truth.
My own possession and my youth.
Why do I put my pen back on the shelf?
What am I suppressing from myself?
Unsure of what may pour out from the other side.
Am I scared . . .
Anxious . . .
Angry . . .
What am I afraid of?
Why am I choosing to not to unveil my truth?
I Have so much to say and this pen . . .
This dagger from hell is my therapy. My safe haven.
So why do I hide from it? Run from it?
Don’t make time for it?
When this bloody dagger from hell is my solace; my truth.
My own possession and my youth.
Why do I put my pen back on the shelf?
What am I suppressing from myself?
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