Dark Writing is the Best


My frigid hands grasped for something,

Anything to survive.

The black tar that covered my throat

Soon welled around my eyes.

I struggled to see in front of me

Paper blurred in the night

Stained by silent teardrops

Holding on to life.


I was no form of poet,

I was an amerteur at best.

Yet as the night grew longer

The words spilled from my chest.


The night continued onward

As my head spun round and round.

The stars too,

They were falling

And screaming to the ground.


I struggled to find my sanity.

The moon beamed in its light.

I wrote some words with madness.

I ripped my lip with fright.


The ink dripped on my fingers

Like the blood would from my veins.

It smeared across the pages,

It gave my monster a name.


I gripped the stylus tightly,

I worked throughout the night

Bleeding out depression

Without using a knife.


Poetry kept me steady

And as the sun shown through

I felt that something in me

Knew what I had to do.


I used the words I wrote before

To share just how I felt

And with some time

My family

Worked to get me help.


Poetry today remains

A medicine of sort.

It is my weapon against the monster

Who took away my heart.


This poem is about: 


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