I bleed my art.
My art bleeds me.
What is it without me?
For I am nothing without it.
My beauty lies in open cut veins
bleeding fragile life across the floor
vexing my mind confessions of secrets
caged inside, set free in that moment.
And the words bleed from my fingers
across the pages of my poetry, so
I dip this quill in my own blood,
and I feel those words there
waiting to be discovered,
pressed to paper.