poetry
is emotion.
its just
a sputtering stream of how our mouths process it.
sometimes
its little drips
of crimson blood,
drawing lines from our lips to our hearts.
others,
its a projectile scream;
something we can stop or close our mouths to.
it affects other people,
splatters of my blood on her shirt
or
my scream shattering her eardrums
but
now she has crimson to spill
and it trickles down her lips.