Journal

Insomniac's Journal

Words birthed in the internal

His subconscious' dunk-tank

These words remained unranked

Articulate the contemplations

Of these waking frustrations

Pen in hand

Sleep be damned

These are the greatest thoughts in the land

But why do they come at 4 in the morning

Must write them down

And heed the warning

His memory won't serve him as well when he wakes

If only he knew what was at stake

Words, Words, and more still left to come

Cannot stop till he sees the sun

Sunken eyes

Blood shot red

Sleep finally comes to the walking dead

Sunday, June 2, 2013

The Cutter's Bloody Questions

What do you bleed?
Is it thicker than water?
Does it stick and cling when it’s spilt?
Does it echo with memories?
Does it sing?
Or does it cry?
What really pumps through you?
Is it laughter or disaster?
Wood Oak or shriveling plaster
Is it melodic hopes?
Or just sanguine ropes
Hanging you slowly with the veins of life
Splitting open
At the drawing of dull knives
How does it run?
Slow or fast
Dripping with poison
Weighed down by mass
Drawn from the heart
Out through the pipes
This Life hinges on liquid
This liquid flows throughout life

What do you bleed?
Is it love?
Or is it lust?
Is it wet?
Or is it dust?
Does it flow because it wants to?
Or does it flow because it must?
Does it bubble and clot?
Does it twist?
Does it knot?
Does it wriggle and writhe?
Does it buzz like the hive?
Fresh or stagnant
Dead or Alive?


What do you bleed?

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