The pen bleeds my pain on a white sheet,

The depth of each word and line is deep.

With a sharp pen, the words I craft cut deeper than a knife.

If you read carefully, you may find yourself bleeding through your eyes.

The pen is filled with the weight of my pain.

Heavy as it is, I dare to lift it vain.

Like a brush of an artist, The pen paints wonderful pictures,

So vivid that each feeling and mood is felt,

And like a clear mirror, every colour of my soul is reflected.

The paper is my priest, it knows all my confessions.

The pen is my witness, it shares all my testimonies.

And as my feelings disperse to rest of the world,

Contained in each word,

I wonder if the world will accept me,

Or misread my words and judge me,

Reflect on where I’m from,

And criticise me.