Untitled
I bleed ink onto my papery skin,
the black liquid scarring my surface.
My heartbeat is the steady scribble
of the pen that leaks my lifeblood.
But my scars are not ugly,
they are beautiful words and dreams.
My breath is the soft whisper of
sentences yet to be born.
And my mind is full of brilliant ideas
that have not emerged from my heart.
Am I alive or am I dead
or caught in between
the world of reality
and fantasy?