There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. -Ernest Hemingway
How many pages have I coated with blood?
Surely enough to slate a battlefield's thirst
Yet still, new unblemished reams call for more
So away go the bandages, torn are the stitches
I clench my wounded heart and let the red pour
Drenching the paper, quenching its thirst
But why must I drown out the empty white?
Could I have found the secret of alchemists past?
The source of immortality is neither medicine, nor elixir
But the bloody letters, torn from the body day by day
To live forever between covers, sealed in written word.
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