Three poems sits upon the page.
One bound in fear, one hurt, one rage.
Each living proof of years in pain.
All ready to become one flame.
Yet none should burn, and all must stay.
For in their words, lives not a day.
A record of three decades past.
A record of a curse still cast.
Why keep the hurt? Why give them time?
Because they hurt, because they’re mine.
For words are more than simple strokes.
Each word, a scar, each line, some hope.
So let them rest, and let them go.
For what they hold, lives deep below.
It should not be, yet must not stay.
And on the page, it stays away.
These poems live, so I can breathe.
They give me time, they let me leave.
In open skies the soul can fly.
In page, in dust, all demons die.