my blood is ink So my bones must be quills.

Something so little to everyone else.
Just a few words.
Something good without the 'buts'
One thing about me not counteracted by the bad.
Am I not human?
I just see the world through eyes you glass over with class.
Cut me and watch my veins bleed ink.
Spilled onto the paper you wrote down your God.
Now my own personal scripture.
Im a writer.
Bones made from pencils and quills.  
Mind made from endless madness.  
Blood made from the ink I write.
Poems written frim the word if the voices in my head.
I am a writer.
Not a freak show.