What is ink, if not blood spilling?
Splashed across the whiteness, staining,
making marks so proud, proclaiming
I was here, my voice is hiding;
buried under crimson letter
after letter, like a tea-r
coursing down upon the paper,
branded bright into forever.
Yes, I know the pen will bleed me -
Turn me inside out, a ghastly
Sight displayed, but somehow lovely.
Blacks and reds, I beg you, gently
curl and wind along my pages -
cut me deep into the ages.
Just a few thoughts on what it feels like to write sometimes. Critique is welcome!
Rate the flow and rhythm 1-10 (1 being choppy, 10 being smooth)
Is the language cohesive or is there too much going on?
What do you see while reading the poem?
