Nothing ends poetically,
It ends and we turn it into poetry,
All that blood was never once beautiful,
It was just red,
But my mind is a hive of words that won’t settle,
Madness that can no longer be suppressed,
when it comes to art it is important to not hide the insanity,
The war my thoughts wage against my body,
The darkness I try so hard to hide,
But the tenebrosity is leaking from my pen,
Till my paper is filled with the breathings of my heart,
How can it be that my words,
My chaotic, tumultuous words,
Are more alive than I am?
To read my writings,
Would be to read my mind,
And my imagination wears darkness;
Like some girls wear a little black dress,
I am lost at sea,
Drowning in an ocean of thoughts,
Swimming aimlessly,
In search of places that are yet to exist,
The only light accrued by the moon,
Someday I will find the light,
But just like the moon, half my heart will always be shrouded in darkness,
And my thoughts will forever flow through my ink,
For I am a writer,
I do not cry,
But I bleed on paper.