Release is bleeding from my pen, refusing to coagulate.
Let it escape.
Down the river, not across the street.
Bleed wholeheartedly,
Until it becomes the last thing you do,
Unless it’s for attention.
It wasn’t me who opened these gates.
Im the gate.
Out of me
Flows poetry.
Wounds on the consciousness
Scaring the mind, not the soul.
Someone come appreciate something.
Notebooks are oceans of self pity.
No. I’m just aware, I swear!
Spiral bound bleached lines.
A waste basket to heave my emotions,
My perspectives.
When will my blood be printed?
Available for plucking from ripe rows of literature,
In a grand library in the worst part of town.
Nothing can stop it’s profuse need to escape.
