Bleeding Heart

I write poetry to hear the words

I seldom dare to think.

I lay my bleeding heart to rest,

and use its fear as ink.

I poke and prod so carefully,

cutting here and there.

I rend my bleeding heart to shreds,

but never gasp for air.

I watch the blood flow carelessly,

streaming ‘cross the page.

I write and bleed so fluently

Of love, and fear, and rage.

And when this bleeding heart is done,

and nothing more comes out,

I set my pen down wearily,

and finally– breathe out.