The Blood of a Poet

I
bleed
in verses,
my heart a rhythm;
iambic, and constant
blank meter, sporadic.
Words fly like winds,
words fall like rain,
clacking upon
keys.

 

My
ideas
are knives
that cut and brew
internal hurricanes;
whirlwinds of words,
twisted into stanzas
like ropes, forever
falling.

 

The
sun cuts
through smoky
cloud and misting rain.
Thoughts bleed from brain
to page, rainbows condensed,
clipped, and shaped to prisms
upon the paper. A careful
eye will see the
colors.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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