Infection

By Quincer

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Writing

For me

Is my blood flooded out onto the floor.

It pools, and I can’t perceive it

As mine

Driven from dark purple-red veins

It is a deep red now.

Foreign to me.

It is given a life of its own once it has

Taken in the oxygen.

Some stare and gawp.

Others faint or are surprised

When it gushes from me.

Some caress to keep it down.

Put pressure on my writings

Because

heaven forbid it get infected

Fester and produce puss ready to

Implode with passion

Or worse

Infect the listeners

Destroy their immune systems

The complacence and conventions

Pushing them

To start anew.

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A/N—This was the first poem I wrote while a part of a special poetry program for teenagers. It was a 5-week internship. We shared and critiqued one another poems and performed ours in a few places.

Can you believe it? They paid us to do this! Poets, look for these programs; they’re probably around your areas, too—you will not regret doing it.

Also, the blood analogy is not my own; I got it from a quote . . . I don’t remember whom it was said by.