Why write poetry?
Why bother at all?
Now, it might seem like it's going to rhyme
like I just stepped out of a story book,
but it's not going to tinkle;
it's not going to be pretty
because this ink is my blood.
I haven't got to be nice.
i don't have to conform to Structure & consistency
No margins can touch me in my free form trance of pseudo-universal being.
I can say what I like
and some lofty high-nosed idiot will call it art,
but I just call it me,
this ink in my blood.
I can express my rage
when Mother throws away
the one momento I had of my childhood friend who moved to Japan
and it's gone and I want to rip apart the fabric of reality.
I don't deserve this.
I feel the liquid fire everywhere
in my inky blood and bloody ink.
I can be eloquent, too,
if I want you to know the anguish
that is more tears and self-pity than the last stanza
when my friends talked behind me
when I cried on the school steps.
my blood ink was salty.
I just need to tell you how magnificent my feeling of euphoria
gets when I smile at a stranger;
when his lips twitch;
when her eyes crinkle.
I feel on top of the world
and I control it all like puppets
with the ink I made with my blood.
Just like when my piano teacher
tells me to take my feeling from my back
down my arms through channels
of wrists and fingers and soul;
so does my speech
run down and down and down and down
until I'm not sure where
the blood and ink combined.
I look down.
I see meaningless words
the world can easily scrap and erase.
I know what I lost, though.
A pint of faith, despair and hopelessness and infernos.
I cut myself open
and pour ink from my blood.