The pen bleeds my pain on a white sheet,
the depth of each word and line is deep.
With a sharp hand, 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 the 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.