I cannot decide if my blood is red
With the passion that leaks further out
Of my soul every day,
Or black with the words
That I have to spill to survive.
Maybe I am blind to the colors,
Black and red like the suites
Of the cards that I shuffle
Just to occupy my hands.
Cards printed with ink.
Red and black and red
Like the ink that courses
Inside my veins,
Writing out my story for me.
But I am tired of having it written for me.
I yearn to write my life in black.
Must I drain my inkwell of red
And replace it before I truly feel alive?
Survive: Collected Poems
By ellrose1895
~WATTY'S 2019~ ~NOTICE~ AS OF 2/3/19, THIS COLLECTION HAS TOO MANY PARTS! READ VOLUME 2, THRIVE, OUT TODAY! ... More