The Eyes on the Poet

I loved it. I spilt myself onto the page. Me. In my rawest, truest, most naked form. The blood of my soul leaking into the page. Happy with my dark matter. Constantly morbid. Lustful dread. They hated it. It terrified them "What is this?" Theyd say. "Are you okay?" "How could you write this?" I am not sad. I am not weak. I'm the sinful poet of the night. I show the ugly needed to be seen. But the eyes. I could never get rid of the eyes. Glued onto me. Judgement. Pity. The eyes were always on me. And I learned they would never love my insides on the outside.