My thoughts bleed onto the page with my emotion,
as if the pen would heal my soul.
I write anxiously, furiously looking for answers.
When I finally bring the pen up for air,
words, thoughts are scatterred everywhere.
Is there a point, a message?
sometimes, not always.
A stream of consciousness can lead to a revelation,
or to nothing at all.
I read through the dribble on the paper.
Unhappy in its indecisiveness, I tear it up.
Pieces fly everywhere and for a moment I question whether to try again.
But as my heart beats faster, my eyes start to tear, my lips quiver,
I realize I need something, anything to heal my pain.
So I pick up the pen once again, I take a deep breath,
and let the bleeding begin.
With every stroke I look for a band-aid,
some sign that the medicine is working.
Sometimes, it’s like a migraine that just won’t go away.
Other days, the pen is truly the victor of my battles.
Which day will today be remains to be seen.
I close my eyes, pray for a moment; for peace, for solitude, for guidance.
Pen do not fail me now,
and so I bleed again……