My skin is the paper,
The blood the ink,
The brain my prompt.
When I am turned to muscles and bones,
Those that know me know that my hands are at work.
Those that don't ogle at my nails as they
Scratch the blood into the skin to create words
That have been found in the abscesses of my brain.
What a sight, I think.
To watch an author make words out of nothing.
It feels like an irony.
We are all given the skin, the blood, the brain,
But our eyes would rather focus on the ideas
Of others as they become real and perfect.
So when I write poetry, I push the lead harder
Into the paper in hopes that onlookers will
Read between the lines to find more than
Just a mirror staring back at them.
I hope they find me, too,
And I hope they try to fix me.
YOU ARE READING
The Beginning To The End
PoetryI've never been a poet, that much is certain, but I can tell you that it does get written. A lot. These are the collections of my poetry I've written, and some of them hit hard for me.
