The Blood That Remains

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What was once hewn from the depth of scraped knees

And harshly driven splinters underneath sultry summer skies

Twisted and began to slither down my skin

At the tender age of thirteen

I watched the drops permeate the freshly washed sheets

 

Caused by a timid jerk not unlike the type

That painted rings of scars around my ankles

At the thoughtless age of ten

A time when the razor bled shook within my small fingers

 

Yes, each time a fresh river was released from beneath my skin

Throughout all the years, though the reasons changed with the seasons

This is the blood that pumped through my arms

As I recounted each of these events

In an art that’s revered by many but only truly held by the few

 

Starting with carefree ignorance at the words I was creating

Later stacked among the scribbles of my childhood

It then became the click of keyboard keys

A blind fury of words without apparent reason

 

Now, I feel the words crash through my arms

And pulse at my fingertips

Eager to stand at attention before select eyes

Although I do not force a blade through my wrists anymore

I do not waste the life I have so mercifully been given

I do relinquish the words constantly to paper

 

As the veins beneath my skin spread, so is the reason I write

The words change and become richer

With diction and syntax at the forefront of my mind

But they will never be apart from the source of my life

 

I write because I still hear my heartbeat create a rhythm

For the work I do in the yard I once played in

I write because, without it, there is a chance

That I might not have had the chance to sit here today

With my third cup of coffee

And relish the chance for a new start to my future

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