Curse the poets blood.
No matter how much I cut myself, I cannot bleed it away.
Curse the poets skin.
I cannot tear it off, it holds everything in.
Curse the poets feet.
The more I try to run away, the more they dig in, rooted to the words that ground my life.
Curse the poets tears.
They provide no comfort. They blur my vision, wet my pages and smudge my ink.
Curse the poets mind.
At times I dream of throwing it all away. But I cannot differentiate between reality and figments of creativity.

There are too many moments in my life
when i had the words.
i could have warmed the room,
affirmed with love, comforted tears.
and chose not to.
i have long become sheltered by my writing.
i let the fear of my tongue hold me back.
love has asked me to better,
and i have refused.
never again.

Curse the poetic blood
No matter how much I cut myself
I fail to bleed it all away
Curse the Poets skin
I cannot tear it off
It holds everything in
Curse the Poets feet
The more I try run away
The more they dig in, rooted to the words that paint my life.
Curse the poetic tears
They bring no comfort, they blur my view and wet my pages, smudge my ink
Curse the Poets mind
At times, I dream of ways to throw it all away
Curse my poetic heart
But there is love here
And so we cheer this life on.

We are all talk
We are all advice
We are theories
We are all philosophy
Too many opinions
Too much knowledge
Too much water, nothing holding us
Nothing giving shape
We are all shapeless
Too little back bone
Not enough spine
We are all pages
None of us are books
We are all something
None are enough
Too much thinking
Not enough living
We don't do
We haven't done
None are perfect
For We do not practice
Too many preachers