Sometimes I think poems are revelations
It is like our fingers or pens are dripping out with our feelings, concerns, emotions, regrets, desires, joys, fears and so on.
Our blood are being used as ink, transferring to the paper, colors of our lives.
Little by little we begin to loose ourselves, confessing to the world through our bleeding heart, looking for approval, for scape, for attention, but, for more than that, I would say inclusion.
We get real pain and create beauty,
We suffer for real and we pleasure for nothing. We twist our thoughts to create rhymes, we see what others ignore, we catch words from the wind, we drop our feelings to the world, for the sake of our on story.