Bleed, cowards, bleed;
For your art and properdom and punctual punctuation.
For your canvas and your ink bottles, and those extra sleeves
to wear over your heart.
And those sentences that start with a voice, just to lose their humanity, running
on and on and on and on and on.
My teeth grind, like gears in a stasis, observing my sweat
and fervor. My crimes of ending sentences in preposition,
Drinking in heavy draughts of sleep and deprevation,
Clutching my chest hard like a junky,
Searching for my sweet sweet long lost love.
My first high on the universe, etched out between the lines
Of a fourth grade notebook.
Now you make me desperate for ryhmes and simple days.
It's your critique that made me tear my pages out,
looking for the bottom, making me stand and shout
"GIVE THIS POEM A SEVEN!" Don't you dare give me a perfect score!
Because if you do, I'm perfectly full
and can drink in nothing more.
What good is a life already lived paid in full?
I've been alive far too long then,
outside of my natural starving state.
I'd rather be done breathing then let my teeth go dull.