Blood
The words spilled onto the paper, spreading and saturating it like blood as I wrote. Each beautifully curved letter smothered the page. The pen danced lightly, it's golden tip carved forbidden phrases and the rhythm of the heart. My blood flowed freely through my words. My bared soul vulnerably displayed for all to see on a single sheet of paper. A bright a virtuous white, how foolish that must seem when in my eyes my blood flowed over it. Each stroke of the pen a brilliant shimmering red. Small droplets splattered helplessly against the paper as each stroke ran more furiously over the paper. The incision in my arm flowing freely as it began to pool slowly on the desk top. Pain holds no meaning in such an equilibrium of consciousness. My final hour, my greatest piece, would harbor stature unknown to any other. Art, I am art in the making. The rich stroke of a pen, a paper written in blood; they never understood my illusion. I never understood theirs. This is my reality, there is no pain, there is no blood, only my will. They call me mad, they diseased my youth and I thank them. For blood which flows without my veins spills out onto the paper, not in truth, but in consciousness. My thought spills as blood, flowing freely. It knows no boundaries for it's expansion, filling page after page with bloodied notes. I am the artist, no one can save me now. I thank you. I thank you sweet derision for blessing me the talent of the written word. I thank you sweet intrusion which we call love. For love is the creator of all things, love makes the blood run sweet. Evil turns blood bitter and without remorse. That is not an artist. I am an artist, spreading my blood upon the paper, I am an artist and my blood is everywhere.
Blood - Past Wrongs
- Thoughts -