Pain takes many forms. Try writing about it!

Ink flows blue, not crimson, against these written pages.
How can passion flow so freely, yet I fail to bleed?
Effort aside, my emotions spill not onto these paper stages.
How do I satisfy my heart’s haunting need?

Is this not my hand that pulses and quivers,
As my heart pounds inside my chest?
Are these not my eyes that cry, filling rivers
as my weary soul never finds rest?

As these are of me, so is the fluid that flows from the point of my quill.
Perhaps my blood lay clotting as I compose.
The page is before me, and wet scrawls of emotion dry bluer still.
I’ve written aimlessly, missing my mark I suppose.

I can pick at the scab that covers my wounds, to make my blood flow free,
picking and prodding, promoting infection.
But if the pace of my heart beats slower, and my healing wounds forsake me
how do I tell the world of my love’s rejection?

I could throw myself onto the tracks and wait for your oncoming train,
or jump straight into the pit of your fire.
But as surely as my plunge to your depths would fill my heart with pain,
I’d be healed by the want of your desire.

Alas, its true enough I guess, that blood flows through my veins,
while ink forms these words that I tell.
Mere words cannot tell the tales of my heart and its pains,
just as my blood will not fill the inkwell.



Lavender Leigh
January 12, 2004