Echoes of a Bleeding Pen

The nib, once smooth, now bears a jagged scar,

A testament to battles fought within.

Each crimson drop, a whispered memory's star,

A teardrop's ghost, where joys and sorrows spin.

It bleeds onto the page, a haunting stain,

Of dreams long shattered, hopes that turned to dust.

A love unspoken, etched in mournful rain,

A silent scream, a trust misplaced, misplaced trust.

But in the darkness, where the ink takes flight,

A resilience blossoms, fierce and bright.

For pain transformed, becomes a potent light,

And stories woven in the fading night.

The pen becomes a vessel, raw and true,

Unveiling depths the heart can barely speak.

A tapestry of shadows, whispered through,

Where wounds unfurl, and secrets start to leak.

It bleeds in anger, bleeds in bitter tears,

In laughter's echo, and in whispered fears.

A symphony of scars, transcending years,

Where broken fragments find a voice, and heal.

So listen closely, to the pen's soft moan,

For in its echo, truth finds a sacred home.

A bleeding heart, yet stronger on its own,

With every drop, a new poem is sown.