Cold tea

Okay, so my tea's gone cold.

As these thoughts unfold.

Razor blade tears on the page.

Twisted lyrical rage.

Therapy is the ink in my pen.

The twisted thoughts in my head.

Introspection

Contemplation

Revelation

With every stroke of the pen.

Words spill like blood from a vein,

Dripping truths, both joy and pain.

Each line a stitch to mend the soul,

Making fragments into a whole.

Poetic verse, it's like popping a pill.

Like the cure to my ill.

The remedy to pain

The sunny day to my rain.

So the ink just flows,

can't feel.

The pain is numbed.

I am healed.

But healing's not a straight line drawn,

It's a labyrinth of dusk and dawn.

Sometimes the ink runs dry,

And the demons still cry.

Yet I return to the page anew,

To write my way to something true.

For in these words, I find my way,

From darkness into light of day.

The pen, my sword; the page, my shield,

In this battlefield of thoughts concealed.

With every verse, I reclaim my throne,

In this kingdom of mind, I call my own.

I am healed, yes, but never done,

For healing's a journey, not a destination won.

So I'll keep writing, keep feeling, keep being,

For in these words, I find my meaning.