Pouring my heart out to the page,
prevents me going into rage.
I cannot seem to stop my pen,
writing my thoughts and words again.

The more I write, the more I feel,
the more the loneliness is real.
Melancholy at its worst,
no time to practise or rehearse.

My mind is full of emptiness,
time for me to re-address.
To pull the reins and stop the flow,
and make the pen and words go slow.

To spill my feelings into verse,
is it art? or is it curse?
To read back words of misery,
damages the soul so bitterly.

To pen my hurt is not a gift,
it does not please, and does not lift.
Do you feel my inner most thoughts?
Are you left feeling out of sorts?

Are you ready to let me in?
Does my sorrow seep through your skin?
Betrayed in love and life and hope,
I no longer want to try to cope.

I want the world to comfort me,
let my mind and soul be free.




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Tracy Windross
Apr 7 2020

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