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.


Please Check out my Patreon and contribute should you wish to.
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.


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