A Calling
Blinking and breathing, is your soul alive?
I bleed poetry cutting deep with my pen;
Poets do what we can to survive;
Where we’re going, where we’ve been
a tower with an endless beam of light;
Scars cover the poet drenched in caffeine ;
Blood splattering every letter we write
open a vein, faint, and keep on crawling;
Candlelit verses bombard you all night;
Is it your job or is it a calling?
Would you bleed if no one was watching?
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