We humans need blood in order to live, to survive,
We need it to flow strong for our bodies to thrive.
It carries the breath we take to each part of us,
It keeps our bodies in balance, and so, thus
It keeps us happy and safe, warm and kind,
But my blood is something of a strange find.
My blood is not composed of cells, red or white,
But of the words that flow from my heart when I write.
My fingers itch with the need to bleed my life onto the page,
The need to create, to imagine, to set the stage.
The words writhe and boil through each vein,
But why do I share them? I've seemingly nothing to gain.
No crowds await me, no trophies, nor riches.
But I know my reward: the words act as stitches,
The sutures that bind my soul and keep it intact.
So tell me: what have I to gain from this act
Of not knowing my place in life, when I belong here,
Upon this mountain of words I hold so dear?