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...