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
Copyright © Christopher Flaherty | Year Posted 2023
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