I’m bitter.
I read, I breathe in their beautiful words
And they dance around my mind,
Making me eternally dizzy, giddy,
Highs are High.

But Lows are Low.
Once the fog passes I’m left with only
Jealousy, pain, confusion and blame.
Because in my mind, they bleed talent.
They clench a sword,
Scarred skin over veins become blade,
And from a wound, wonderful words,
As red as passion and as natural as
Inhale, Exhale, Bleed.

It drips through the fist cracks,
Onto the pages in streams that steam
And they giggle in their loss of blood,
At any given time ten pints of talent.
Everything they need for a masterpiece,
And until the next is ready
To transgress the plane of their skin
They need only wait.
At their giddiness my giddiness ceases.

Why does it feel that only I need try?
To strive at the impossible-
For I’m filled not with ironed blood
But salted tears,
Their ghost on a page?
Not the strong, rust brown of others
But only a wrinkle.
Maybe we recall why we cry
But why we bleed, we Are.
I never know who I am,
Who I write never knows what,
And I blink back tears, for
Until I feel the sting of life’s red water,
They’ll not fall.