Digest of a Poet

Long lines on paper.

Pages filled with angry words.

Poetry scattered about.

Under this book, written in that one.

Torn up on the ground.

Written on your hands in sharpie.

Tucked neatly into a binder covered with bands no one knows.

Written along your walls.

Written on your bag you carry around with you.

Pens bleed onto the page in the shapes of words.

Swirling softly into sense that no one understands.

Scratched out.

Darkened shapes form from the written words sprawled out.

Words you can't remember saying.

Things that you would only scream into the world of nothing.

Pages brittle with age.

Pens all used up.

Pencils worn to the end.

Bleeding knuckles from the raw blood you feel.

You might have used as ink.

Huddled in your corner.

Scribbling back in the farthest spot in the class.

Watching quietly as no one notices.

Cold blue eyes feeling through the blood of the ink.

Another way to get them all to go away.

Turning pages in your book that you take everywhere.

To feel rotten about something you didn't even do.

To cry yourself to sleep after you read what came out.

Raw souls bleed.

Tender feelings cry.

Angry screams write out things you never see.

Scraping your name into the lasting feeling of loneliness in a crowded room.

Digest of a poet.

Covering as a another face in the crowd.

To know what it feels like to rip a paper up of beautiful words. Then tape it back together when you try to remember what made you angry enough to destroy part of you. Take it all away.