the truth about poetry

it scars you 

without asking 

like the marks on your hips

wondering when you'll heal 

so write because you're bleeding out pain 

poems being the outcome

looking at your hips 

seeing the words drip

and the string with the shower water

just like the eraser 

coming at the words 

as if your art wasn't worth it 

but i learned it was 

in every form 

in the crimson spilled 

the truth coming out 

as if not telling my parents 

the secrets of my life was better 

my journal full of writing got to know it more

each time i feel like bleeding again 

i write 

the same sensation coming out of it

knowing it will heal once again