Marcel

Words bleed through my pen or pencil,

Onto paper they fly,

No regret felt by I.

Pour my heart and soul onto this pad,

The aggression and sad-

Ness is the best that I have.

Poetry is my broken window,

When doors remain closed, 

The feelings exposed, through the 

Passion arose....

A rose smells pretty,

But when you grasp it

You bleed.

But not more than poetry

Allows me.