The Rose Blood Poet

The quiet succubus of the sword-pen
likes to muse every now and again
over chai-tea latte and ominous prose.
Traveling roads no one else goes.

Quietly, she taps on ebony keys,
making verse and rhyme with ease,
and in striving to make the perfect conceit
she was left with nothing but broken feet.

Babble bleeds from flowery fingertips
as thoughts whisper from crimsoned lips.
She pierces friends and foes in every act,
in every vicious word she can’t take back.

Divine words on the grape vine
are nothing more than filler lines
in the many jars of bottled emotion
ready to burst into the social ocean.

Though they beg for more mundane
works of love, sorrow and pain.
She does not soften her bloodied pen
as she slices the paper once again.

Her ultimate goal is kept guarded, hidden
in the depths of her mind most forbidden.
And in her final poem she reads:
“Remembered are those whose poetry bleeds.”