Hands drenched in massacres.
Whoever knew writing
bloodbaths could cleanse
the soul that overflows
with last words.

Last night you made a promise
to the sun, that as long
as it rises you will never

I overheard you
over the silence; your
words were
golden. Never let
them take that from you.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741