Inspiration

I cut. I cry. I write. 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. I write. I cry. I cut.