To Marcy Howard
A confession written on paper, with ink that is blood red,
How love lives in the heart, and how it lives in the head,
This ink made of blood, comes from our falling tears,
And all the screams are at night, because nobody hears,
Slowly these words, seem to come from within,
Like the blood knows a path, because of where its been.
All these words written, are made with this blood ink,
And as bloody tears are converted, there’s no need to think,
This ink takes the words, from somewhere in the heart,
Because those tears made of blood, inside the heart they start,
The pain and the anguish, flow from the writing hand,
Landing on the paper, as the blood demands.
These words made from tears, which are composed of blood,
At times are a trickle, yet other times are a flood,
The words are a message, that only hearts can understand,
That love should have wings, not live on the land,
The blood that’s within, when dropped upon the page,
Assumes the shape of a heart, a silhouette on our stage.
When the blood used as ink, is then used to write,
There’s no need to think of words, they come from somewhere inside,
The hand moves on its own, the words just seem to flow,
And every word echoes things, the heart already knows,
These words that flow from bloody ink, come straight from the heart to you,
The blood passes through the heart, pure love is what shines through.