It is blank. Just too blank for the things I carry.
Each dot stares at me. They know they are designed for control. They judge me. It is too calm
But the silence ruptures quickly, The feeling of regret flows thickly, Through the depths of my torn heart, Into my trembling hands that start In the pen and onto the white Like some messy kind of art.
I am overflow with hurt, With splotches of tears on my shirt, The red rims of my cold eyes Filled with a look full of despise Still remembering betrayals
With words that threaten to leak and spill Yet, silence is wrapped around me like a quilt, Writing words that fill me with guilt
The memories cut me. With viscous yells that feel like cut-throat hits A sickening feeling I know too well Where my eyes burn with tears that dwell And with a stare so still
If I had spoken out like this, I’d be a brute beast
So I bury them In this page
With the bleeding of my words I am Bettered into a pile of bits
The spill does not feel like poison. It is bleeding. Not foreign to you.
Sins written into me But they are covered. Rewritten.
The canvas is where I can blink I can think
The pen trembles As if it knows before I do
Line after line The ink confesses what I cannot say
And suddenly I realize You have been watching the page
It is you Lord Who sees my final stroke.
It does not have the final word
You do.
