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.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2025
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