Trigger

Ink, in the bottom of her purse, 
Bleeds from the felt tip of perfection.
Seeping desperately through white leather, 
In one last attempt to destroy the effort
That it took her all year to find; clarity.

The knowledge that everything is broken.
Nothing in the world could take from her the past. 
Red ink spilled on the floor, feeling for empty veins.
Searching, hunting, yearning, heartache fast approaching. 
Another pen exploded, and she bit right through her lip. 

Memories flashed like sirens, blinding her wounded eyes; 
Bright red, dark as night, someone in the distance screaming. 
Screaming bloody murder, but nobody else was there. 
Her swollen lip throbbed, cracked beyond repair; 
Blood moved slowly from it, feeling for a pulse. 

There was none, nothing. 
The drummers had all gone home.
Her stained white purse remembered; 
As she sat in class and daydreamed, 
That red ink wasn't just like blood.

Reviews

[Lanky]

I read this poem over three times, and when i had finished, I just exhaled. It took me a moment or two of deep contemplation before my thoughts caught up with my feelings. Something struck a cord in me. Even now i'm not entirely sure what i should say. All my brain came up with was, "Wow." Which for me is a very unusual event. So i must say, this is an excellent piece of writing and I love, not only your style, but your word choice and flow as well.

[Alex Zynder]

I get a very clear image from this poem, you know how to describe the image perfectly. Poetic in every sense of the word.