Writer’s Stains

I look up, down, and all around.

My skull cracks open

and forms a crown.

Pieces of bone sticking up through the air.

Trails of blood mingling with my hair.

My thoughts spill out,

now they’re everywhere.

Coloring the world

without a care.

Onlookers notice I’ve got a flare

for writing you see

I’m a writer indeed.

It’s as simple as sitting down to a page and starting to bleed.

I smear myself all across the screen

and use the color from my broken heart to stain everything.

Everything I touch

and everywhere I’ve been

is just a blank canvas

for me to begin filling in.

My minds been screwed open

and unhinged so now

I stick out a little bit

From the seamless crowd

my head is creating its own bloody crown.

Because I’m queen of the world

that I’m creating for myself.

I can’t handle reality

so, I write something else.

I’m merging the real world and mine

one piece of my soul at a time.

Because that’s what real writers do

when they start to rhyme.

It’s as simple as sitting down to the computer

And bleeding a stain that’ll last through time.