Words in Blood

When I write I hold the knife, and deep within I think
that with each poem that I write I spill more blood than ink

Because with each word that I know, that dares to grace the page,
my deepest thoughts, I delve into, and pour the blood away.

Much like the blackened ink that coats the tips of quills
Pages soak up blood drawn words like motion picture stills

And every stanza, every verse, blood letters on the sheet
From eternities of blinding pain, eternities words keep.

Within every poet, every artist, every piece
Ink flows where the blood once ran and never will it cease

and with every poem that I write, the artists cruel demand
a piece of me is drained away, and bled by my own hand.

So when I write I hold the knife, and deep within I think
that with each poem that I write, I spill more blood than ink.

©2015 Alex Hicks

Words In Blood by Alexander.J.Hicks is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Alone, There He Sits

A man sits alone

in the place he calls home

and he sits in his chair and he weeps

A tear in his seams

Has wounded his dreams

And upon him, slowly, death creeps

He’s not broken yet

But he can’t forget

How he pushed all of his loved ones away

And now he can tell

That in this living hell

That he’d wishes he’d just let them stay

Now see the blood drip

From his fingertips

As it pools at his feet on the floor.

He’s fought for so long

His defences are gone

And he can’t fight alone anymore

And the pieces he’s lost

That his choices have cost

Have torn his conscious to shreds

His own mind betrayed

Wants not to be saved

So now – there he sits – until dead.

Alone, There He Sits by Alexander.J.Hicks is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

A Shard of Himself

He sits all alone in his room

Picking up what pieces he can

He can’t shake this feeling of doom

as he holds what is left in his hand

The shards have all fallen from him

Like glass from a fell picture frame

The pieces all fall from within

And no one remembers his name

No one remembers the tears

That glistened in his soft eyes

All he can see is the pain and the fear

And all those who told him the lies

He knows that he should regret

Hurting the ones who say that they care

Now waiting for deaths soft caress

Only now he admits that he’s scared

He thinks that he won’t be missed

No more chances, he can’t ask for help

Blood pours when he opens his wrist
With a jagged, sharp shard of himself.

 

A Shard of Himself by Alexander J. Hicks is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.