The pen bleeds black upon white page and releases pent-up humors.
Thus bleeding is the cause and aim of truth and lies and rumors.
Spoken not are all the things that minds and wills withhold.
No one dares discern the truth that we are all hurt and cold.
Today will end like yesterday, and tomorrow much the same,
But still will I be sitting here none the surer of my aim.
For all my faults and follies had I've had enough to bear,
But still they come, and ever numb, I take more than my share.
She lays on me the many things I can not standing carry.
These burdens of a hated love are wounds we do not bury.
Such is pain of heart and mind when souls fight flesh and time.
Sin has pains much worse than hell; this is its greatest crime.
Alone we are in many ways, more distant now from God
Because of all the pain inside, and for comfort but a nod.
Honestly our honesty is hardly much at all.
We've felt the need to hide and such since the moment of the Fall.
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