bleeding pen

This is Who we Are

Poets see things others don’t. They notice
the small, (un)important details of life.
Watchful, questioning everything, questing
for beauty, ugliness, for all that is
different. Observing, absorbing all
we see. The universe simmers inside,
waiting to flow like inky blood onto
the page, sharing our vision, showing our
scars, hurting again, loving anew: cut
us and we bleed words. This is who we are.


For Quickly‘s prompt.

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