My blood gets
Frozen,
Skin turns thick.
Mind goes blank,
Pain becomes
Illiquid.
Empty walls
Stare,
Blank papers
Mock.
Solitude turns
Into a mirror.
My reflection,
A failed
Literature.
I keep stabbing
Myself to make
My pen bleed.
Ink-trails are
The only way out
It seems.
Wounds are
Portals to
Freedom,
When the soul
Does freeze.
Quill is the key.
And the bird that
Flies away is,
A poem indeed.
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