A poem entitled The Bleeding Page

The Bleeding Page

I take a look at this paper heart

It’s covered in scars

Like the scribbles on the napkins in my pocket

Now everyone is looking at me

Is this real or just a wicked dream?

My ego doesn’t give me permission

In fact I’ve never been sure that it existed

Until I learned to see

I can make this ink bleed

I may never make it to the end

But I can commit murder with this pen

So many years of rhythm and rhyme

Always being accused of wasting my time

Wondering why my talent is a lost art

Never finishing what I start

Except filling this page

And you would think by this age

My dreams would be no longer be alive

Massacred by the nine to five

But the rumor of their demise

Was just another page in my life

And now with ease

I make the ink bleed

They say a picture is worth a thousand words

Put I can paint with these letters till you rest assured

The story has been told

The color has been restored

The brush strokes only show

What I already know

On the paper is my truth and my soul

It’s my purpose, my passion, my goal

How could this ink not bleed?

The blood is coming from me

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