Blood Lines--

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Loose razor blades, blood in different shades.

Scarlet droplets, dripping on my sheet.

I grasp my black pen, swirving through the spaces to the rhythem of the beat.

Smudges on the rubber making it slippery.

Conception from the begining of the margin to the end, a perfect delivery.

Of ink stains with blood drops standing out like circles in the crop.

An invavion similar to excessive athritis, the movement can't stop.

Alien-ware calligraphy, my so called Pø€tr¥.

Between the lines, read between the letters as it is unseen like fairytales to the unborn.

Beautiful as rose, but roses do have thorns.

My punchlines like landmines, sticking needles with blackness creating art.

Pinch of a dart, acupuncture holes in a balloon, I create bleeding hearts.

From wrong holes, as I'm jotting down idea's on the paper but the holes on the right.

Should be on the left...creating more illusion the more I write.

Scribbling out mistakes, 2 lines through is all it takes.

Like setting the time in the oven to bake, a minute over-time is too late, thats why.

I practise precision, like a surgens incision, calm mentality handling a homo-sapien that's bleeding.

Stich him up with a needle, like pasting the edges of my page with another page so I don't stop breathing.

Poetry's my source of oxygen, almost outa ink and I get an asthma attack.

Open my back-pack, tear the cover of a new pen and I'm back.

Take three deep breaths to unlock the shallowness of life,

as I. Continoue on my excursion turned into a soul incursion.

As I write

and write,

never stop..

write and write and carry on