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Description
So, about that girl who threw herself down the stairs earlier.
She’s a weird one.

She tortures herself to get her blood pumping,
To get her thoughts flowing.

The pain is her ultimate inspiration.

Closely associated with pain,
Is love,
Which also inspires her.

The two go hand in hand in the truest from of
Poetic matrimony.

Looking back
And thinking of him
Is just like taking a nasty spill
Down a few flights of stairs,
But it’s worth it.

Grinning,
Black and blue,
She can proudly glance at those bruises on her skin
And know for certain that she is still
Full of ink;

Words to write, in other words.

Her sweetest sanctuary is when she’s with a pen.

Thankfully, these bruises are invisible to the naked eye.

Only a true fellow poet/lunatic can see
That they’re actually on her brain.

Constant bloody reminders of past events,
Remnants of her greatest inspiration.

She can cut herself open
And dip in with her best pen,
Drawing ink from her deepest depths.

Or maybe she can just hold her bleeding fingertips
Over her precious piece of paper and hope
The words will simply drop and take shape on the page.

As long as it gets written.

As long as she won’t go on unnoticed.

As long as someone reads about her,
Perhaps she exists.

Description
So, about that girl who threw herself down the stairs earlier.
She’s a weird one.

She tortures herself to get her blood pumping,
To get her thoughts flowing.

The pain is her ultimate inspiration.

Closely associated with pain,
Is love,
Which also inspires her.

The two go hand in hand in the truest from of
Poetic matrimony.

Looking back
And thinking of him
Is just like taking a nasty spill
Down a few flights of stairs,
But it’s worth it.

Grinning,
Black and blue,
She can proudly glance at those bruises on her skin
And know for certain that she is still
Full of ink;

Words to write, in other words.

Her sweetest sanctuary is when she’s with a pen.

Thankfully, these bruises are invisible to the naked eye.

Only a true fellow poet/lunatic can see
That they’re actually on her brain.

Constant bloody reminders of past events,
Remnants of her greatest inspiration.

She can cut herself open
And dip in with her best pen,
Drawing ink from her deepest depths.

Or maybe she can just hold her bleeding fingertips
Over her precious piece of paper and hope
The words will simply drop and take shape on the page.

As long as it gets written.

As long as she won’t go on unnoticed.

As long as someone reads about her,
Perhaps she exists.