400
I peel the skin from my fingertips
And carve hearts in its place and let my fingertips bleed
Then I stamp my feelings in writing instead of wearing it on my sleeve
Edgar Allen Poe thoughts and William Shakespeare speech modernized with Emily inson ambiguity but I don't practice pseudepigraphy
My words are my own-- a true story
But once the blood dries I'm left with no ink but fear
Fear that lingers and leaves me to believe that my stories have ended
Yet the rasp of my fingertips against the dry piece of paper won't let me surrender
I go against the grain and aggravate my new found heart and allow the lightning from the rain to feed and gnaw
I enjoy the pain and ignore the sight of my fingers going raw
The hurt excites my hunger for my writing as poems are my niche
Yet I'm not satisfied and the pangs grow deeper and bellow quiet sorrows
I've killed my heart while widening my thoughts to make my poems my life
A relentless goal filled with selfish strife
