The Blood That Remains
Location
What was once hewn from the depth of scraped knees
And harshly driven splinters underneath sultry summer skies
Twisted and began to slither down my skin
At the tender age of thirteen
I watched the drops permeate the freshly washed sheets
Caused by a timid jerk not unlike the type
That painted rings of scars around my ankles
At the thoughtless age of ten
A time when the razor bled shook within my small fingers
Yes, each time a fresh river was released from beneath my skin
Throughout all the years, though the reasons changed with the seasons
This is the blood that pumped through my arms
As I recounted each of these events
In an art that’s revered by many but only truly held by the few
Starting with carefree ignorance at the words I was creating
Later stacked among the scribbles of my childhood
It then became the click of keyboard keys
A blind fury of words without apparent reason
Now, I feel the words crash through my arms
And pulse at my fingertips
Eager to stand at attention before select eyes
Although I do not force a blade through my wrists anymore
I do not waste the life I have so mercifully been given
I do relinquish the words constantly to paper
As the veins beneath my skin spread, so is the reason I write
The words change and become richer
With diction and syntax at the forefront of my mind
But they will never be apart from the source of my life
I write because I still hear my heartbeat create a rhythm
For the work I do in the yard I once played in
I write because, without it, there is a chance
That I might not have had the chance to sit here today
With my third cup of coffee
And relish the chance for a new start to my future