I cannot decide if my blood is red
With the passion that leaks further out
Of my soul every day,
Or black with the words
That I have to spill to survive.
Maybe I am blind to the colors,
Black and red like the suites
Of the cards that I shuffle
Just to occupy my hands.
Cards printed with ink.
Red and black and red
Like the ink that courses
Inside my veins,
Writing out my story for me.
But I am tired of having it written for me.
I yearn to write my life in black.
Must I drain my inkwell of red
And replace it before I truly feel alive?
YOU ARE READING
Survive: Collected Poems
Poetry~WATTY'S 2019~ ~NOTICE~ AS OF 2/3/19, THIS COLLECTION HAS TOO MANY PARTS! READ VOLUME 2, THRIVE, OUT TODAY! On the pain, love, and passion that makes me human. Potential swearing, mentions of suicide, self harm, depression, rape, etc.
