My Blood
Blood drips from my pen
It falls
And scatters this page with words
Just as it has with so many others
I never meant to change them
But I took the ink and wrote
I crossed what I had written
And other words still I spoke
I am a poet
And yet I threw my thoughts away
And wrote inside my fake reality
But no one else knew the password
They couldn't ever see
I blocked what I had written
And hid it all from thee
So heres another poem
But theres differences now
You see the words that I wrote
and nothing from you do I hold
So now I'm in the open
and you can see I'm broken
You can feel the scars upon my life
And see where words have hurt me
And cut me like a knife
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l.c
I will not always live and yet I am always dying the only thing to balance life is the way I'm writing. It makes me think of living it makes me think of death. But it seems that when I'm writing I leave all out or less. I do not talk of living, but in my secret way. I do not talk of death, but sometimes it comes way. All I need to know to live and die is write, all I need to see is sunshine and moonlight.
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