The poet sat in a pool of her own blood,
Not quite certain how she got there,
But very sure it was a perfectly normal occurrence,
And not to be questioned.
Oh yes – for she could feel the words
Seeping grotesquely from her bones and
Gathering all around her and she
Could sense the inspiration leaking
From her strangely unslit wrists
And she reckoned that she understood,
Because she chose the life of a poet – and
To be a poet is to always have
Dirt, blood and words
On your hands.
* * *
You ask her for beauty,
You ask her for woe,
But her fingers write with a mind of their own
And heed no mortal request.
It is not her business to
Brighten or darken your world and
Give you a reason for living.
She exists for the sole purpose of
Opening your eyes to the
Swirling, deliciously chaotic
Mess of her mind.
And sure, she’d quite like to
Stand naked and divine in front of you and
Pretend she’s some kind of goddess
But really, all she is
Is an exile, a captive
* * *
So you look at her,
Sitting cross-legged on the floor,
Poring over notebooks,
Her hair a tangled mess and
Her soul even more so, and
You think this
Is so easy.
But what you don’t realize is that
These words are not pulled
From a pocket or some secret drawer.
She rips them from her guts and
Her very soul.