Words run through my veins
Freed by the cold sting of a pen.
Flowing over my arm in stanzas and rhymes,
I relish the feeling
Of poetry running under the pen.
So many times I cut the words free
Until I have a song
Falling in crimson drops from my body,
And I can again contain the words
I hold in my blood.
But my body replenishes the words,
And I must again free them.
The pen cuts through my veins
Spilling the sonnets and the ballads,
And I do this again and again,
Until just once the pen goes too deep. The words flow too swiftly to make a poem
And I lose the would-be poems that made me.
I release the poetry in my veins, And as they desperately try to revive me,
I slowly fade out.
My words were my strength
and my downfall.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC
Words run through my veins
Freed by the cold sting of a pen.
Flowing over my arm in stanzas and rhymes,
I relish the feeling
Of poetry running under the pen.
So many times I cut the words free
Until I have a song
Falling in crimson drops from my body,
And I can again contain the words
I hold in my blood.
But my body replenishes the words,
And I must again free them.
The pen cuts through my veins
Spilling the sonnets and the ballads,
And I do this again and again,
Until just once the pen goes too deep. The words flow too swiftly to make a poem
And I lose the would-be poems that made me.
I release the poetry in my veins, And as they desperately try to revive me,
I slowly fade out.
My words were my strength
and my downfall.