Every ounce of breath
bears the stench of death.
And every tooth once white
has now smeared straight to red.
It's lipstick, you say,
"I just kissed her today"
but then you close your mouth,
your tongue flicking down south,
to the gash inside your cheek,
the wound that calls you sick and weak.

It's not wrong to bleed,
not sin to follow your own lead.
To feel, to seek, to burn away the pain
To fight for your own gain.
Your survival,
or a rival's,
hinges on your choice right now.
To what will stain the sweat upon your brow.
Is it blood? Is it oil?
Is it tears that fell down to the soil?

You're stronger than you know,
your fears don't have to go.
Just compromise,
rationalize,
take the hurt inside your heart
and turn it into art.

Paint a picture, a portrait,
who cares if its worthless?
Might the canvas be your skin,
does a bloodied blade constitute your pen?
It's yours, your soul, laid out upon a page,
the lines and grooves your mark of rage
that tore and tore through your tortured mind
and burst right out just to find
a shattered broken world that curled
around the tainted vessel that it had filled
and forced your arm to grab that knife
to join with all the pain and strife
so as to rip a way back inside
your empty soul for it to hide
and wash away this thing called hope
with blood and sweat that slicked the rope
which wrapped around your bruising neck...
until you surfaced only to see
the horrid pain you were pouring through me
and to wipe the tears off of my face,
pulling us both from death's embrace.
So you pushed that part away again...
It's okay to bleed my friend.