Poem By Klaudia Eastwood

Pouring your heart out in the form of ink,
Onto paper in words, constantly feeling the sting.
Only its messy scrawl feels the pain,
Of your unbearable loss and your struggle to gain.
Truths that won't spread through whispers and such,
But truths that are written, with a shaky touch.
And when the page is full, you tear as you were torn,
its surface with your feelings it's worn.
To flames it goes, like your trust did do
The writing of hate, that was thrown apon you.
Burning away, to ashes is does go,
The hurt and hate, that only you will ever know.

Comments about Ink

Good poem.still wat does the last lines i think is a symbol of creativity.

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