An Aspect of Poetry

The ink splatters
across the page
like blood. 

The droplets
spraying the paper 
with a dark coloring. 

It stains
the pure white
destroying it. 

Writing poetry is
like cutting,
a release. 

My words
spill
onto the paper,
bleeding
from the pen. 

I write all
my secrets,
hide nothing. 
I can not
be discovered. 

My poetry
is a cloak of
veils hiding true meaning
like hiding scars.  

It plays
with words,
twists meanings. 

It slices 
into tender places
in my heart
like a knife. 

The pain,
the poems
feel good
and I need to write. 

The words spill
from my wrist 
to coat the page
in a slick cover
of ideas.

Author's Note

What did you think? Did the title fit? If not, any suggestions? Anything I could change or improve?

Reviews

[Michaela]

I don't know how you do it,but once again I find myself understanding exactly how you feel. This poem was perfect, and I congratulate you for being such a great writer.

[Legolas]

Very nice comparison. I relate to this alot! Keep it up!!!!