That is Why

When I write a poem,

I take out a knife and cut

Slowly into my chest,

Through the shell of my ribcage.

And it is my fleshy,

Beating heart that’s bleeding out

Onto that still-blank page

Whenever I write the words.

You so often ask me

Why my words are so mournful,

Why my soul seems so pained,

Perhaps now you will know why.

For in every poem

That I bleed myself to write,

There is pain in the act,

And that is the reason why.

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