It's not words,
It's pain,
Of my soul's sufferings
In this world so vain.
How long would survive
Mere blue ink?
Hence runs my blood
To say my story,
Out of the blazing cuts
Carved on my body.
How beautiful
These dissecting,
Outgrowing lines
Red, as on fire,
Vivid and full of life.
But it's a sad story they recite,
My story, as lifeless as me.
My scars tell you
Lonely I am,
Though I call it solitude,
To sympathize myself.
How funny it seems!
These smarting scars
Tell the truth,
As I make up dreams
To heal a little
Of miseries and pain
In this world so vain.
This poetry
Written silently smooth
With blood that soothes
My sight and soul.
No, not sadistic,
Nor pessimistic,
But realistic
I am a bit.
And now when I'm hurt
In body and heart,
And my scars tell the story,
Cold blood trickling down
My hands, and paper,
There rests
The only audience,
All knowing
But in silence,
Blood smeared blade.
YOU ARE READING
Longing In Silence
PoetryWords come to my mind often and I try to give them life. So these are some of my poetries, each one inspired by my daily life incidents and happenings. Read. Vote if you like. Comment what you felt. Just a beginner there, need your help. Winner of...
