Sometimes my life feels like a series of bad poems.
Bad, I had to fight through hell,
swim through the souls of my demons
to retrieve the pieces of me
you’re reading in stanzas.
Bad, I wasn’t clean when I came out
The words on that page are shattered slivers of me
That speck of inspiration in your eye, the last tattered piece of my soul
I smeared my blood across the lines of that paper
That’s my blood on your hands
Look at it
staining your pure, privileged fingertips