The bleeding pen

The pen bleeds,

it cries black tears for me.

It lets me put into words pain that I could never speak aloud.

But it too will turn it’s back on me when I need it most.

It will laugh at my lines and take away my freedom at my darkest hour.

It too will never let me say what I mean.

It will never truly understand what I am,

and if I wrote for every second of my life,

I could still not describe

the joy and bleakness,

the desires, right or wrong,

that overtake the tiniest particle of my brain

at any given moment.

Life goes by too quickly,

and I will never want to give it up.

Nor is there one thing I wouldn’t trade

to have a tiny portion added on to my allotment.

Nor is there one deed I wouldn’t do to have the ability

to go back and live it all again:

to change what needs to be changed,

to undo what should never have been done.

All the days I have will be burdened down with regret

and with the wondering of how things could be different.

But they will never be different.

My path has been chosen by a child who didn’t know any better.

To change it now would be to hurt people

who have suffered enough at my hands.

I am the one who will silently pay the due I owe.

I will serve this sentence mildly.

My freedom will be in my mind and on the page,

until those too are taken away from me.

I can only dare to hope

that what I can not believe

may prove true

and that I will be proven wrong.


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