Torn pages on my doorstep Tainted memories on my floor Each word may be a misstep Each thought stolen from my core.
I bleed a bit too often, It comes with the territory. But I write my feelings when People expect more from me.
Clutched paper in my hands And a pen behind my ear, Asleep on couches unplanned, Never finishing what I fear.
In the morning I will write, In the evening I will wonder; At times I’m awake in light, Most days blend with blunder.
Done with honor for beauty, Written so I can be heard. Fragments for people to see, Ridicule and deem absurd.