Poetry, PTSD and Awareness

Fresh Ink

The pen’s tip is like a knife slicing onto paper, releasing fresh ink that bleeds into the parchment. It paints a picture of what’s overflowing in my veins. It’s the emotion. The pain. The suffering. All of it, flowing in fresh ink. My lifeblood. My essence pouring out, screaming into oblivion, hoping someone, anyone can hear me. Can you? I’m here. I’m bleeding words. And I won’t stop until I’m purged. Spent. Exhausted. But it’s not long before boils over, overwhelming me again and I’m itching for that blade to scratch once more.

© Sarah Doughty

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