Oh how I wish I was one of those souls,
who could carve a sonnet
from their blood
using the  instrument of a pen
to elicit such tangible tastes of their soul.
Sadly I find that my blood
can only spray shades of ashen melancholy
to dust the unwanted corners of your imagination
or perhaps in simpler terms
writing with my blood is
like unfurling a broken rose
already buried within your hands.
What can I do apart from
creating clichés into my
inspiration
or write poems
which are simply nonsensical.