Should I jab this ink into my jugular and let the words express themselves in a manner never seen before?
All the while I pour out every single emotion ever known to exist in my being onto puddles of madness on the floor
Maybe that will allow the world to see the words for what they really are and judge the poet not
And the world can envision its own rolling fields of golden daisies in a soil made from carefully sifted rock
Praise the blood that bleeds profusely upon the lines of every page
And bless the minds of the loved and lost who discovered pain at an early age
Allow me to place the cap so carefully back atop the pen so that you may take my metaphors and open doors and churn them in your heart and head
It's only when I stop bleeding
that I am truly dead