Bleed
Spinning words slowly
One by one
They fall into place
Using strands of words
That come from your heart
Beads of blood
That cling daintily
Reflected upon your face
As a way to show
The people around you
What is there to see
How the red pulses
How it thrums
To a beat that cannot
Be seen or touched
A pacemaker that is not
Tangible at all
But somehow
Makes everything
Bearable
Poetry is its name
The way words shine
On the surface of a paper
Or how the letters peel off
Like music notes
And becomes a ballad
All on its own
How it sings and shrieks
Hums and harbors
Dark and deep secrets
That have been dissected
And lifted up
With gloved hands
Underneath the blaring
White lights of the world
For all to ponder and observe
What could this mean
What is this
Why do I feel warm
And pleasant
Why do I feel heavy
As if the weight could not
Be less heavier than
A thousand suns
The fierce longing
When I lose something
Very precious to me
What is it called
It is Poetry
What is Poetry
It is raw
Raw is not good
Or so I've heard
It is poison
And must be cooked
And seasoned
Before the world accepts it
But Poetry
Poetry can be raw
Poetry can make no sense
And still be beautiful
And terrible
And ugly
And still accepted for who it is
It is the tumbleweed
In an abandoned town
It is the lone friend
Staring after you
As you walk away
It is the ink
Running through your veins
It is the sun and the moon
And the infinite amount of stars
It is the rain and the wind
Lashing out against the earth
It is the world
Turning every day
It is the people
Starving and crying
And fighting and laughing
Walking then sleeping
But watching and living
It is and will
It has been and may be
It is not them or us
But you, me, and we.