When I bleed, I gather all my pain,
And with each drop, I write again.
The story of the source, the root of the ache,
I etch it onto paper, each detail I take.

Not just a scar on my skin to remain,
But a testament on paper, a mark of the pain.
For though one may fade, the other persists,
Proof of the wound, of the trials I've kissed.

No, I don't revel in the agony's embrace,
Nor see it as a lifelong race.
These are my life's tales, encrypted in ink,
Moments of hardship, moments to think.

They're mine to keep, forever enshrined,
Even after I've left this world behind.
I don't expect others to tread the same path,
But if they do, perhaps they'll find solace, not wrath.

In the book of experiences, if ever unfurled,
Perhaps someone will see their own world.
Reflections mirrored, answers revealed,
In the stories of pain, in the wounds that healed.


© Sarah✨️