If I bled, I would bleed words.
All the poetry that I had in me
would spill from me in a beautiful mess
of scarlet ink.
And I would sigh with relief,
as if that moment was my first breath
of freedom.
I would feel better now that my words
could feel the sun against
their souls,ready to make new poetry with
every passing pulse of their passionate lives.
If I bled, I would bleed poetry.
Maybe then you could see all the words
I never said, and how beautiful they would
have sounded,like two hearts beating to the
same rhythm, the same music,
written in scarlet ink.