This is What it Means to Write

๏ฟผ

In spilled ink are truths found
As we bleed across pages
Stanzas formed from our pain
Paragraphs, our experiences
Waiting for those rivers of us
To congeal into certainties
Certain kinds of truth
Yet like the blood in our wounds
They merely crust
As imperfect finishes
Upon imperfect souls
They scab. They hurt
This is our destiny, pain
This is what it means to write

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