Purpose

It started off as a whim

Word vomit

That somehow formed sentences.

Trickles turned into floods

Things I’ve been keeping inside

And short bursts of intensity

All painted crimson in this diary.

This was supposed to heal me

But all it’s done is

Dig up my skeletons

Only for them to sink back into the earth.

That’s alright

Most importantly

My words bleed on this page

So they wont bleed on my wrists.


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Busybody
Poetry
Free Verse
writing Busybody
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