Every poem, every word
Every stanza
Is but a drop in the bucket

Sometimes the bucket is empty
Sometimes it's overflowing
To the point where even if I stopped
It would still stain an entire carpet

A poet's work is a work of art
Each line drawn with precision
By a pen filled by an open wound
Yet never staining the paper

Every drop, every letter
Every cut
Is purposeful; filled with intent

Sometimes the intent is release
Sometimes it's excruciating
To the point where if I stopped
I would feel its pain for decades

A poet's work is a careful slice
Each word chosen with precision
By a knife stained in blood
Yet never missing the mark

With every line, every metaphor
Every stab
We're bleeding for your enjoyment

Bleeding for our art
Until we have no more blood to give