Ink Blot

This is a piece which I have adapted from my youth. I consider it a resurrection of the writer in me I have tried to deny

The ink; my blood in which I dip the pen; my knife

Always a last minute attempt to breathe

The only means I have to save my life

My words I've learnt to slash like razor blades

They leave no pain but a loving self abuse

My mantra: this is the safest of ways

Vanity and pride force such a heavy burden on my bones

A stubborn sense of what it is to be

And what it was to be, coddle my self righteous groans

Every leaf I half heartedly turn offers new life

A spring of hope and nevermore of what is

Alas, my wicked ways, I find, too great a sacrifice