Blood Ink Infused Writing Heart Wishing Well

What I the things I choose to write about Come through my pen unto me Out of seemingly nowhere apparently So even I myself seldom do not know The places where my imagination goes In order to fetch and find them from Is often darker than the deepest Color scarlet congealed and cellular Blood vein viscus red ink That flows throughout and from my sanctity Mind body soul heart head to toe Best described as like a donation or transfusion Alluding to reading again to this conclusion Is the ink my thoughts and words Merely simply just an illusion a trick I play unto myself but prefer to share with an audience For the sole benefit of placating me Rather than supposed to being Of hopefully some use and help To someone else suffering in need out there Who unfortunately feels can relate and sees the world As I do both them as well Poetry is an art form of blood letting But although words are a rallying cry A way or means to an end Words not backed up with meaningful actions Then becomes inconsequential and superfluous Both worthless and demeaning no descript And a sure fire sign that the undersigned author Writes for no other reason than To do so for the sole benefit of pleasing themselves And my heart bleeds for them also as well As they are the unfortunate kind and likes of people Who will gladly and willing steal others Pennies out cast into a wishing well And yet still somehow be able to Sleep soundly well at night