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How should I write
the story of my life?
Might not be polite
to dwell on such strife.
Should I write my words
in blood? That’s how it feels.
Each sharp like a sword,
in confusion reels.
Ink? Blood! Oxygen rich,
pumping. Diluted by tears.
Suffused with rage?
The embers of memory
that linger, resistant
to change: what was
surely is; instant
forgiveness
is not my style.
Carve memories in stone,
let them dwell a while;
for whose sins do I atone?
Hot and metallic! Ink? Blood!
keeps us alive. Poetry
feeds the soul, releases
our innermost thoughts.
drags them to the light.
Images and abstractions,
who is right?
Edits, adds and subtractions,
set the scene, call the cast;
now, let’s replay the scene.
The words are easy to recall.
What do they mean?
Poems written in blood?
Sounds grotesque. Poems
suffused with rage?
The embers of memory?
In the end, it’s ink.
Blood is too precious.
It might as well be so.
It keeps us alive.
Tagged in les bush