Ink-Stained Path
The pen is my escape,
the paper, my refuge.
My thoughts churn relentlessly,
a broken record of noise,
each thought crashing into the next—
a fight, a war, a riot in my head.
But then—
I write.
And everything stutters to a halt.
The ink spills,
like blood from a wound,
my mind quieted
with every stroke of the pen.
The chaos, once overwhelming,
twists into a stream,
thoughts flung free,
a world untangled,
a world only I have seen,
a world that lives inside me,
bleeding out,
spilling into the lines.
It’s like the words know me,
they’re pulling me apart,
understanding what my mind can’t.
The paper becomes my skin,
the pen, my heartbeat—
an extension of something raw,
something I can’t quite hold.
I trace the mess,
make marks
and watch them take shape—
half-familiar,
half stranger.
The ink is my blood,
it flows until I’m empty,
and the mark I leave
is all that remains—
a shadow of a thought,
a scream too loud to hear.
I write to empty myself,
to drain the noise,
to shift the weight
of a mind that never stops,
to bring peace to the chaos
that echoes in my soul.
This is more than escapism.
This is survival,
a way to breathe,
to find stillness
in the madness.
This is me,
unravelling,
until all that’s left
is ink and paper,
truth and silence—
a silence I own.