And many people,
Or maybe some,
A few perhaps,
Profess to like my work,
Riven as it is with broken hearts
And torn souls,
Oceans of tears and
Viscera damp upon the floor
Ripped from bodies wracked in pain,
But here's the thing,
I do not write for others,
Each word that bursts from my fingers,
My pen or often times
My keyboard,
With its burden of blood and pain,
Is writ for just one person,
Sometimes two,
Always me,
Always the author,
And sometimes the person whose
Hand was on the knife!