I can bleed a poem,
from the compass blades i cut
through my skins for
for directions unknown

For the life lived in
an inertia is better
than to feel and react.
The hysteria of the mind
is too violent to me
and all on my part
i can do is bleed in words

Because if nature abhors a vacuum,
like science says
in between that space
must be letters and sentences that rhyme
there might have been poetry sublime
And we can scribble them down on the
paper
Or we simply can bleed