Truth stains
the poets language.
We tell our stories
through hardships
that sail on
sandy deserts.
We tell our stories of pain
The sort that we all have,
but we give it a name.
We are not superheroes.
We still navigate
these same harsh trails,
but we write it all down
for those who follow.
We tell our stories
soaked in truth.
We don't sugar coat it.
If it looks and smells like shit,
then we try to avoid
stepping in it.
Our words
come from within,
Places cut and bled from our skin.
Left for dead,
festering bloated corpses
of where we've been.
We are not saviours,
but our stories saved us.
So, we pass them on
as guidance to the paths
that made us.
It isn't a pity party,
we are not here for sympathy.
No card will negate
the tears of neglect.
They won't bring
back the sleep,
to sleepless nights,
where hours have wept.
But they may inspire someone
to look upon what is going on
and think again,
about what is being done,
and instead of sitting
and taking the pain.
Seeing the monsters,
one by one
and facing them off.
Until the monsters
are the ones that run.
Thanks for reading.
taken from the #escapril prompt
"Truth"
Please take a few moments
to check out my new book "Poetic Outlaw"
available from Amazon
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CVQ5F9K8/
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