My hatred weaves into verses like a serpent of smoke

My hatred weaves into verses like a serpent of smoke, I am a sad poet who bathes his pen in blood and shadows, I seek my reason in the past, in those days that seem never to die, And memories are my muses, ghosts nesting in my soul. My hatred grows when I uncover my scars, Turning them into fresh wounds that refuse to heal, A poet of pain, playing roles that trap me in snares, I try to navigate from darkness towards a flickering light. My hatred swallows me when my words are misunderstood, I am seen as a captive soul, yet I seek my way out, Fragments of poetry writing about pain and wounded love, The pain that remains, deeply rooted like a bitter seed. My hatred stretches over pages, a veil of trauma and fear, I relive the moments that haunt me, weary of their burden, But the words flow, unceasing, like a river of blood and pain, For this is all I know, an endless source of emotions. In the silence of the night, I tell myself that perhaps one day I'll find peace, But until then, I remain a sad poet, prisoner of my own verses, In a universe where pain becomes art, and art becomes liberation, Always seeking the path to light, beyond the shadows within me.