Stains
When my heart cries, I tend to stain pretty paper with blotches of ink....
I reacquaint my pen
with the lines of my paper,
like old lovers,
missing the touch of the other....
With each strike,
I mean stroke,
I document another pain,
another hurt,
another apology I should have spoke....
I write out every scream I want to release,
every question I won't get to ask,
every feeling that I have to mask.....
And at the last mark I make, I find a little more peace...
This poem is about:
Me