Blood and Poems

When poetry pours out of you
 like a waterfall.
 Your soul is bleeding,
 and your poems are
 tourniquets to tie off
 the wound.

— –

Poetry has slowed to a trickle,
 the tourniquets
 bind my soul,
 the poems soak
 in blood,
 so much for word salad,
 bloody steak is on the menu.

— –

Poetry still flows
 out of the wound
 in my soul.

Words pool,
 seal the wound,
 soaking the binding poems.

At least I’ll have a cool scar.


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 Always remember Poetry isn’t a Choice.

Also, I’m still working on my Passion Project, my Poetry collection, In Media Rêves. Check out my GoFundMe and contribute if you would like.

Originally published at on May 1, 2017.