Writings in Blood

I turned back the pages,
And was left aghast
By the pain that was wrought
All over the pristine paper.


Was that blood mine? 
That which dripped onto this page
Through the nib of my pen.
Or of those who are mine? 


These words that scream
The hidden truths,
The loss, the agony.
Is this voice my own,
Or of those who are mine?


These histories,
They are not golden.
They glow with the red 
Of hysteria, of Hell.


And my poor soul writhes
When I turn back the pages
Repeatedly, I churn my poor soul
In the black shadows
Of angst, of denial, of abuse.


The angst, the denial, the abuse
That even I know not -
Are mine 
Or of those who are mine.