Though lifting the pen
To bleed on the page
Seems like a gift,
A talent given,
I would argue that
There are days
When writing poetry
Feels like madness leaking
Outward from my head.
Rhythm and rhyme
Pulsing in time
To how broken
My heart is.
The urge to pull the pen
to bleed upon the page
is something that seems
to be unwilling to fade…
I thought poetry would be
a passing phase,
something that I would grow
out of as I would age.
Instead, I have found myself
drawn deeper in,
bleeding more verse
than I wanted to in the end.
One from Serena And One from Me.
for some reason this did not post properly on Monday….
Can you find the answers? Do You Have a Copy yet?
one from me and one from Serena Mossgraves
Have you caught your Echo Yet?
Pattimouse