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.

Tymen

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Originally published at inmediareves.wordpress.com on May 1, 2017.