Ink-Stained Tears

A poetry inspired by the quote;
“We dress up our grief in metaphors, wrap our wounds in poetry but blood was never ink and pain was never meant to be beautiful.”

Pain, a phantom that haunts the soul,
A weight that presses, heavy as a stone.
It seeps into the bones, a chill that won't abate,
A fire that burns, yet freezes with each ache.

It's a whispered promise, a threat unspoken,
A shadow that follows, never forsaken.
It's the echo of memories, long past that's gone,
A regret that gnaws, like a wound that won't be sewn.

Pain, a painter, who colors life with grey,
A musician, whose melody is disarray.
It's like nails on a board, a restless, uneasy sound,
A drumbeat in the darkness that echoes all around.

It's a journey through the night, without a guiding light,
A path that winds and twists, through the darkest of plights.
It's the search for solace, a refuge from the storm,
A longing for peace, that seems forever lost, forever torn.

But pain was never supposed to be beautiful like words make it look like

It's an unwelcome guest, that crashes at our door,
And is never so refined, so elegant, or so poetic, in its roar.
It's a crude, blunt force, that shatters and destroys,
Leaving scars, that never fully heal, and joys, that wither and lose.

Yet, still we romanticise, the hurt, the ache, the sting,
And turn it into verses that make the heart sing.
We find a strange solace, in the beauty of our pain,
And wrap it in a cloak of words, that soothes, and eases the strain.

But let us not forget, the truth, that lies beneath,
The pain, the ache, the hurt, that's real, and not a gentle breath.
For though we may find beauty, in the words we use to tell,
Pain, in all its forms, is never meant to be beautiful.

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