Poetry

The ability
Inside of me
To render thoughts beautifully
Has quietly
And secretly
Taken its leave of me.

So deliberately
And liberally
I render my words simply
Hoping to see
That some of them
Had dribbled out as poetry.

It runs like blood

It runs like blood, this mixture
That slowly drips off the fork
Textured, speckled, red as tongues
That have been bitten far too often.

It's thick like blood, but thicker
And it coagulates much quicker.
The bits give it something to hold on to
As time does flowing through the heart.

But it's sweet; not like blood.
Yet, blood is sweet. It brims with
Sugars and memories, sweat and tears
Though its taste is never pleasant

Life runs like blood, but thicker
It is always sweet in memory,
But unpleasant in the sense.
And it's textured, speckled with experiences.

It runs like blood.