The written word

What is the cure for my wounded heart?
Is it the sweet words of comfort that lay on the written pages,
Past mistakes lived,
Poured by the creators of pain,
Masters of symphony that crushes the sound and tears the joy alive?
I wonder,
Do I keep myself in their stories,
As it easier is to relive the horrors of one’s life?
As no consequences are asked from the keen reader,
Paid in full by the author,
As clearly as the day that rises,
You can see,
The sweat and tears that ran rampant,
In the ink that now dries,
As the heart still bleeds.
But as my mind wonders and my eyes cross between the blurred lines of the letters presented,
I can not help but wonder,
What price was payed for such sorrow,
As who becomes the master of issues concerning the soul,
A teacher of pain and misery?

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