but it's something of a mess
I only write when I'm sad
but poetry flows from my sadness
like ink from my veins.
It permeates the water like broken capillaries,
a blackened concoction of blessings and faith
a blackened conflagration of greeting cards and soiled linen.
I only write when I'm sad
and when I'm happy, I live
free of paper and ink and pen
free of paradox and hyperbole
of sentence structure and rhyme scheme
when I write,
I give my life to the paper.
draining my veins of all their beauty,
and watch as the living slowly become the dead.
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