Bleeding on Paper

It’s said when you write, you open a vein
Just bleed it out for the page has clout

Addicted to words, amused by prose
Trying to stop brings on death’s throes

Oh so alone—but then again not
Other writers know what it’s like to rot

Someone said his drafts were shitphoto 2
I’d agree, especially this bit

Here I lay dying for someone to know
I’m a real writer, without fame’s bow

It’s what I do; it’s all I know
I bleed on the page while the world turns low

On sheets, in books; filling their nooks
A writer I am, by hook or by crook

Off I go on another binge
Bleeding on paper the words that must win

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