Untitled

I bleed ink onto my papery skin,

the black liquid scarring my surface.

My heartbeat is the steady scribble

of the pen that leaks my lifeblood.

But my scars are not ugly,

they are beautiful words and dreams.

My breath is the soft whisper of

sentences yet to be born.

And my mind is full of brilliant ideas

that have not emerged from my heart.

Am I alive or am I dead

or caught in between

the world of reality

and fantasy?

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741