As ink flows onto paper
From a subservient Bic,
A word scratches itself onto paper.
Carved by memories...
Spilled from blood...
Etched in soul...

The words;
Often a double-edged sword -
Cunning and cutting to the reader.
As I bleed the poetic concoction forth,
Spattering the page with crimson honesty,
Spitting the black teeth of cruel truth,
Spewing the bile laden guilt.

It is I
Who write these words,
Pontificating on life and love.
Guilt. Pride. Honor. Trust.
Words, rather feelings...reflections and descriptions of myself.

Take hold the reins!
Gallop into your own romantic sunset!
It is a dream,
One to which I do not subscribe.
Brutality is the honest truth
And in my dream
The sunset is stained crimson with death,
Congealing blood is unromantic.

My own demise
Rests on the sword with which I write.

by Stephanie Hancock