To the World...(A Collection of Poems)

Of Me Writing

My mind whispered low
in the wind
and it was the page, ink'd well,
that caught it.
My heart bled
after being cut open
and the color
that came forth was blue.

I dare say my life
has been encased in words
from the moment I took
the chance to write
without reason -
other than those of my own.
High mountains given
their moment's majesty
and low valleys that
I dipp'd into until flat.

My tears dropped
from my eyes
and each one made a sea
through which I swam
to get to safety
on the white shores placed before me.

My joy was radiant as the sun,
but I did not wish to burn -
so I took shelter in the shadows
that arose from pointed tip
that I held carefully in my hand.

I've loved time and time again,
maybe my heart too innocent.
I let it bloom until the page
was a flower for me to pick
and, later on as I held, reminisce.
I've lost and I found reason
in each rhyme I tried.
It's only mine to figure out why.

I have blood on my hands
from the words I pulled from my veins.
N'ere was any easily extracted
because I had no
anesthesia nor any morphine.
I grabbed and pulled and ripped until satisfied,
my life treated as a monster worse
than that of Frankenstein,
putting pieces together
until there was a tether for me
to hang onto.

Writing became the soul of my sanity
because I plummeted long ago into madness.
They tell me to find my wits,
not knowing it's gone to books I've created,
at the heart of it all a child
who felt afraid of the
unsteady darkness, and weak light, within.