Ink pumped through my veins.
I'd use a pen to slice my arm
then dip the quill inside.
Mutilation held certian, charm.

And so I would write
with trembling hands and scattered thoughts.
Lost in pools of darkness
dilluted by my tears of spite.

How they seemed to pour.
Flowing words with hidden meanings,
unknown fears and my dreams.
Out they came whilst I was draining.

As the ink ran dry,
I tried to put the words inside.
I opened up my chest
and in went what had been denied.

There it shall remain
buried within my former self.
Pulsing ink no longer,
blood, is now the result of pain.