I held the sun in my left hand.
The pen in my right.
Placed the sun above and squeezed.
As my blood began to boil
My skin began to peel,
My right hand shook,
But I couldn't let go.
What laid on the paper
Was the yellow flame from the sun, full of red blood
and black ink: The witches brew.
I growled, at the top of my voice!
"What more can you take?!?!
My life?? Take it, it's yours!
My poetry? It was written,
long before I was born!
My hand? I have no need for it anymore!"
Soon enough,
The sun was floating,
Above my wrist, where I dared to hold on.
It took what it wanted,
And left me a present,
Above the now cauterized flesh.
When I'm tired of writing. Poetry is not pleasant to me. Sometimes I feel as if it writes itself, and leaves me with an open wound.
