Sometime's it's Shit

‘Is it good?’ she asks and
she hands back my pages
Well.
I suppose I don’t know.
How do you measure
blood splayed on paper?
In words?
Your heart cut open
Expectant of healing
Of some sort - a comment
'bout a soft, subtle meaning..
 
Fine, truth
 
Sometime’s it’s a shit show
of living 'tween pages
Sometimes still unfinished
it's tossed in the garbage
Sometimes it gets lit
with vodka and matches
And some days - well most days
it won't matter much
 
why
 
A hopeful poet is a powerful force
of human expression, of love, of remorse
is a poet who beats through their paper and pen
spills a mess of themselves out in words;
breathes again.