Your heart doesn't bleed blood, it bleeds ink It bleeds your secrets It bleeds your history It sends your memories off for a long and dangerous ride
Your eyes warn the people who approach to step carefully, the ground is often eroding beneath your feet Tear droplets form metaphors that run from your cheeks onto the page
Sleep is secondary to your thoughts The nights beg for attention and play loud music through the walls to keep you awake
Your feet are always tapping to the beat of a song you've never heard
Your lips are quiet, but you always have something to say
When you're a poet, you feel everything EVERYTHING you feel the world swallowing you whole and your limbs brushing softly against its esophagus And you're just trying to pass the time until you're either digested or regurgitated