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The Bloody Pen Poem
Hope is a feeling that people spend years believing in, not because it leads them to a place full of flowers,
but because it's the only thing anyone doesn't doubt. Then there is no difference between the lust of achieving and the act of believing in it.
And when that kind of soul grips the handle of the sword—the sword that once provided power to the soul who had lost everything to stand in the world—
that sword develops a second edge because of the one holding it, and it causes damage to both the good and the bad.
Hope is like a hill. If you think—you can walk on it as long as you have strength, believing that at the end you will achieve the salvation you always wanted.
You start to believe in the shadow of hope because it seems beautiful and sweet. To ask someone for your deeds, and to think they will fulfill your wish—that is belief, not hope,
because that is what people are running behind: doing good deeds by suffering so they don’t have to suffer after death.
But at the top of the hill there is no peak, because you never wanted to find it. That hill has lost its top now—it only has an edge where a man can see a flowing river of water.
And while looking at it, a man loses something: it could be belief or salvation, but not hope—
because it was lost when you laid your foot on the hill. That is when hope becomes belief, and that day, a side of humanity was born—one no soul had ever witnessed, yet one everyone became a part of.
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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The Bloody Pen Poem
It’s whispers.
Can you hear them?
I don’t want to,
but they force me to.
Sitting in an empty room,
with no one—
just a cigarette in my hand.
Every time it touches my lips,
it kills me
and makes me want to avoid it—
I know that cigarette is not good for me,
but I like doing something
I know is going to kill me.
But he likes that I do that—
killing myself, he whispered to me,
saying, “Can we switch places?”
I said, “How can I get into the wall?
You are a shadow.”
But how…
I was talking to a shadow
in a room
completely empty and dark.
The whispers say to me:
“Look at me.
Look at the darkness,
and feel both sides of it
that you don’t think exist.”
I thought something was wrong.
I kept hearing him
until he said:
“Come closer…
to someone else in the room,
because my name isn’t dead.”
When I turned on the light,
I saw nothing
but my shadow dancing in front of me,
my body frozen, watching.
And when I looked back,
something was coming out of the wall
with a cigarette,
saying to me:
“I like doing something
I know is going to kill me."
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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The Bloody Pen Poem
How… how did it get like this?
Why… did we stop talking?
After a time… I stopped trying.
You… you… you were very tired to try.
No one did.
And… a friendship… that… no one acknowledged, but we acknowledged—
now doesn’t exist.
Exists… but…
I’m not the same person you talk to.
It was not love.
It was attachment to a person.
That laugh… that conversation… that gossip…
When a man starts to have that with someone,
he realizes there is something.
And that was not love.
Why… why did we stop talking?
Why did it get like this?
You talk to still… you… you laugh with still…
You gossip with still—
but the one you do all of this with is not me.
We don’t even face each other, face to face.
We just materialize.
We just see each other for less than one second and… look at our work.
Look at our work.
I try my best to hide it.
Even though some of my closest ones—
more close than her—
know what I think about that.
I really don’t like it.
Not a guilty piece, but that attachment kills me.
But the problem is…
I don’t see that on her face.
A friend of mine, a sister of mine, a best friend of mine—
we—
I labeled her that.
With the thought that if she wanted to be called that by name, why not.
But the problem started happening
when we both started to live in it.
The hangouts, the conversations,
were not for romantic intimacy.
They were the kind that touch your heart,
not in the way lovers do,
but the way friends do.
An attachment of a friend that I had gotten…
I just lost it.
I don’t know if it was the influence of my own ego,
or my own path.
I thought I was so deep into the path of my passion,
I forgot I had some friends to talk to,
to hold onto.
And now, when I come back from that place,
to my normal daily life,
to see my normal workplace,
I hate to see her.
Because she has new ones.
And it doesn’t feel new to her.
How me and she were—just the same—
but the people are different,
the conversations longer.
And I hate that.
And I hate that.
If she’s talking to someone,
why is it not me?
I’m not insecure…
maybe I’m insecure.
Maybe.
And maybe… it was her.
It was her fault.
But I stopped talking to her.
So I don’t know why she stopped talking to me.
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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The Bloody Pen Poem
I had blood on my face. Dirty. Gracious. And… disgusting. Blood dripping on my face. Didn’t know it. It just smelled bad.
When I looked at my face in the mirror, I thought… that the mirror had the blood.
I kept cleaning it. Cleaning it. Rubbing it. With my arms. With my palms. With my fingertips.
At the fatigue, I could get in my fingertips until that blood dripped from my face onto the mirror.
And now I understand that I had a problem. Who caused problems on both me and the mirror.
Now I can clean the blood on my face. But what about the mirror?
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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The Bloody Pen Poem
A man keeps planting flowers in a place no one visits.
It's not that the place is heavily guarded so no one can enter.
Or that the place is so complex, like love, many people are afraid to give it a chance.
It's not like that.
It is just an easy path to cross over to see that place where a man keeps planting flowers.
Expressionally, he loves what he’s doing.
At no point does he need someone who would appreciate him for his work.
He needs no one who would clap for him,
or criticize him, saying he doesn’t do it right and should work harder.
It's not like that.
No living breath has ever even touched the idea of planting flowers in a place no one visits.
But that man got it on his own.
He loves what he’s doing — but no one knows why.
And as the narrator,
I am also scared to see that place.
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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The Bloody Pen Poem
What was his problem?
He never did anything below the belt in this world.
What was his problem?
He never looked at a girl with the wrong sense of commitment.
What was his problem?
Looking at every possible thing in life
and trying to enjoy it,
even when he was suffering deep inside.
What was his problem?
When he was told he should be perfect for society,
he tried his best to be.
What was his problem?
When his crying was made of pain, suffering,
and the enormous burden of pressure
he carried in every drop of blood in his body.
What was his problem?
Defining every piece of passion he felt
to buy some respect to show in society.
What was his problem?
Working hard for his parents,
not just to make them proud,
but so they could show him off
and make the relatives feel like the lower ones.
What was his problem?
He never showed the face of their only son to the parents again.
But the problem was… they never craved for it.
What was his problem?
He wanted that the world should read this all,
when the note will be in the hand of a policeman
who will have some empathy in his eyes
to talk to the family and ask his father, his mother,
some questions about himself
that would make him feel alive again
even though his soul was dead before he committed suicide.
What was his problem?
He never wanted to be in this world,
but he had to, just because after the death
he knew what will be the best conclusion of death he will receive.
It could either be hell
or his rebirth again in that family.
What was his problem?
Even when he was found
happily hanging from the fan,
the parents said,
“We don’t know what was his problem.”
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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The Bloody Pen Poem
I look at my soul killing its flaws. I appreciate it and let it do so. But when I came back to earth to show them a perfect human, I realized my mistakes made me who I am. Without my flaws, I am just a perfect human—but not me.
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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The Bloody Pen Poem
I love the silence between words, because when I’m talking to her,
every time she stutters, my heartbeat waits for her words to make me alive again.
Every time she looks at me, I think that maybe she’s the one.
Every time I confess my love for her, her silence between the words makes me feel important.
Was she the one, or was I just overthinking?
Those silences between the words could make me impatient,
but when she’s silent, I get to look at her tender face, her mesmerizing eyes.
That’s the time when she’s not trying to fit into the class, or trying to be someone else.
That’s the time she is what I like — she was not like us.
That’s why I loved the silence between the words — because I never got an answer from it.
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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The Bloody Pen Poem
If you look at a still pond,
you’ll see your reflection,
but it’s more vivid or unclear to see
because it is not meant for showing your reflection.
A mirror was created for that job,
but why do people like to see their reflection in water
when it’s not as clear as a mirror?
Because, at the end,
people like the imperfect thing
in which they see goodness.
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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The Bloody Pen Poem
An atheist living soul was floating above on deathbed,
because if he touched it, he would leave this world.
He let the pain out and screamed through his dying soul.
A guy who was once drenched in every bit of gold
comes to him and says:
“I want to make a compromise with your soul and body—
I will save you, but for the rest of your life,
you have to serve me.”
But then suddenly the man who created every bit of the universe
comes to him and says:
“I will save you, but for the rest of your life,
you have to believe I am real.”
Then the living soul thought:
It’s no different. Both are slavery,
but in different ways.
But he thought,
since he questioned God in the life he lived before,
he would face judgment for that.
Either way, he was going to hell.
He was thinking of every possible possibility
that would grant him some life.
But he died in his imagination while sleeping.
– THEBLOODYPEN
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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