Poetry

  So, I found a journal.
   Of my poems.
    
    It's strange how I was.
     Different.

      But exactly the same.
       As I am now.

  Just far less mature.
   And insightful.

    But just as broken.
     Depressed.
      Pained.
       
       Hurting.
        -Myself.

  My mind hasn't changed.
   Much.

  It's pain has just.
   Developed.
    Grown.
     Weakened.
      -Me.

  Heartbreak.
   True love.
    Depression.
  
  That's what I wrote about.

  "I don't bleed blood,
    thick and red.
   I bleed words,
    of ink and lead." -Just a little something I wrote.