Poetry is what comes out of me when I'm cut.
When I bleed it's ink,
it's words which pour and weave 'long parchment roads to arrive at places I never will
to stand for things I can't support.
Lasting languages, promises, purports
to know and feel more deeply that which was once mine
but now I've passed on.
Poor words.
Why should they suffer this pain.
Why should they hear as I hear?
Oh why create them at all?
Because I am lonely?
Because I want for company
and words are just the friends.
They will reflect and demand nothing.
With thoughtful care they will console
In their forms mirror my soul
Their's is the script of the heart
Be born fair words
and listen thus.
Wow. I love the metaphors in this.
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