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.