I bleed words out of my heart again,
a slow, rhythmic pulse of syllables,
spilling onto the pristine canvas of paper.
Each drop, a testament to the ache within,
as hope pushes the edge of my chest again.

I write in the language of longing,
a tender melody of ink and pain,
weaving verses like delicate tapestries
that whisper of love's transient touch.
For what is man but a keeper of wounds,
a vessel for the unspoken and unsung?

In the solitude of the quiet room,
I surrender to the pen's gentle persuasion,
letting it coax my secrets onto the page,
releasing the captive words from their cage.
Each sentence a catharsis, a sigh of relief,
as the burden of silence finds its reprieve.

The ink stains my fingers, my soul,
as I navigate the labyrinth of emotions,
tracing the contours of joy and despair,
capturing the fragile beauty of life's fleeting moments.
With each stroke, I bleed and heal,
transmuting pain into art's redemptive grace.

Yes, I bleed words out of my heart again,
like a wounded bird taking flight,
seeking solace in the boundless sky of poetry.
For in this act of release, I find freedom,
and the wounds that once bled so fiercely
become verses that heal, that transcend.