Pains of the Trade

The ink on my hands is the poet in me. And she’s bleeding. She wants her hands on the page again And is tearing me apart To put me back together Word by word on Paper. Letter by letter on Page. It’s an abusive relationship She’s feeding off my discontent my Sadness my Emptiness my Pain. But she’s not adding to it. And when the tsunami overtakes me She runs towards it with a surfboard. Doesn't care if I’m breathing or not. But I have to be living or else Where would her words pour Out of? The words on my wall is the poet it me. Saying she’s never Far. The lines on my body and Soul Are from her You should know Us poets Cry words, we Scar letters And bleed ink.