Writing From the Heart

I prick my heart, and fill my pen,
For something I do so often,
Writing from the heart,
Upon filigree scrolls, words I impart
In the dead of night,
The stillness of moonlight,
As my third eye shines bright,
In this endless fight.
Trying to set things right,
Loosening my grip of the feelings held so tight
Within my vulnerable soul, behind my walls,
Hidden from the marble halls
Of humankind,
Who, to my soul, have been blind,
And to the world around me,
Afraid of their thoughts of me.
No longer keeping solely to myself,
What made my heart feel as fragile as delph,
To say what needs saying,
Into the universe, headfirst, running,
My heart bleeding out onto the page,
Rambling secrets, out of rage
That I kept them so long in my heart,
Afraid of what could happen if they part.
A liquid seeps forth from my lips,
Is that blood, or ink on my fingertips?
I can no longer tell, for they are one and the same,
In this realm of life, they call a game.
Gears of copper and bronze, turning in my skull,
Lively and far from dull,
Sometimes irritating, just so many
Thoughts, epiphany, after epiphany,
Trying to stave off worry for my dignity, and destiny.
In my lion's den,
I bleed from my pen,
And flow ink though my veins,
As I take the verses by the reins
And show the world my fangs.