Writing is easier than yelling out every emotions
Writing is calming, a soothing voice –your own- dictating what to write
Writing is an escape.
Your thoughts move from their dark place inside your head,
Travel
Down
your neck,
Down
Your arm,
Feel the tension of your wrist as they go up, up,
Up into your waiting hands, fingers ready to translate the vague into the precise
Words tumbling down the ink of your pen.
Writing is the blade I slash across my wrist to feel the pain
Writing makes it visible.
My emotions.
Raw.
On paper.
Right. There.
Like a line of blood dripping down the numbness of a hand rended useless by the power of sharp blades.
My blood is my ink, and each day I bleed a little bit more onto the page, a little bit

l                o n g e r

Each day I shed my invicible suit to put on my poet cloak
For a few hours I pretend I'm a writer
I bleed to death everynight and then come back to life the next morning
I die everynight I peaceful sleep and when I wake up the blood is new.
The blood is fresh.
The blood is black.
And I bleed again and again my anger, my sadness, my incomprehension, my fear, my love, my hate, my loneliness, my grand feelings
I bleed them out
My blood is my ink.
My blade is my pen.
My pain are the words.
My redemption is the beauty of my pain
I lie down and realize my blood doesn't disappear, doesn't wash out.
No one can erase my death.
Because I am once again alive
And I will bleed forever.