I’m Either Stubborn or Desperate

INKY PUDDLES ON BARE GROUND

Why write these verses no one wants to read?
My soul bleeds ink; when wounded, it must flow.
Writing’s not a choice—it is a need,

A reaching for the sky, while trapped below.
No depth, just inky puddles on bare ground.
My soul bleeds ink; when wounded, it must flow.

This hint of life, the only proof I’ve found
Here I exist. In ink, I am made real.
No depth, just inky puddles on bare ground,

A splattering of what I think and feel.
Each word, each breath, the tiny pause between,
Here I exist. In ink, I am made real.

In words I dare to let myself be seen.
These letters rearranged tell different tales—
Each word, each breath, the tiny pause between.

And so I’ll write until my courage fails.
These letters rearranged tell different tales.
Why write these verses no one wants to read?
Writing’s not a choice, it is a need.

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