I wish I could tell the world how much I love you,
Words escape me now.
The paper lies blank, awaiting its story.
The pen rests motionless, abandoned on the desk.

Tears streamed down, staining the page with truths.
Perhaps they can speak, so I let them.
I long to write endlessly about you,
Like a river flowing effortlessly.

Somehow I bleed, not from the skin, but from my soul.
Is this the real thing, or just a spark?

In my poetry, I hid you.
You didn't understand.
Maybe I should bury them alive,
Letting my soul bleed even more...



© anotherdeadpoet