Lines - Original Poem

Like a blank answer sheet, sitting unanswered, unused the feelings inside emptied, misdirected, confused poured out, they are dripping now, but in the literal sense; the crimson flow, it beads from each empty line, creating an intense silent cry, yet perfectly representing the scream inside that will never come out, for there are no ears in which to confide ears that will listen, that will hear, and not judge or ridicule; instead, a single pair of ears hears a miniscule whimper, as the hand that makes each line, trembling with grief and rage believing no one will ever know, the reasons an edge scrawls this fresh page the salty smell of despair mingles with rusty reddened tones as the aroma crescendos to a crux, it serves to remind just how alone the hand that makes each mark thinks they are each line a newly laid section of railroad too far their heart as weary as traveled feet, yet their stripes beneath long sleeves are hid believing no one cares what they’ve been through, and believing they will never be rid of this pain; yet day by day, their flesh will burn as they hide their shame from judging eyes, from errant lips, from ones who will quickly apportion blame will there ever be a day the sheet is gone; arms no more the fear of teary eyes the feelings inside flown away, set free like newborn butterflies…