Writers bleed ink.
Spilling their essence onto the very page they write on.
We are the disgraced, the misfits, the forgotten artists.
Cast away like dirty rags, messed up works, torn canvas, or wasted pigments.
We bleed into our works, capturing the moments.
Drudging through painful memories, freezing them forever in time.
Seizing of troubles for everyone’s enjoyment.
Downgraded in life.
We die for our work.
Ink boiling through sheets of parchment.
Flowing through our veins like blood.
Spreading through our body like a cancer, dripping into vital segments like a poison.
Crying the ink running through us.
Writers kill for prosperity, for life giving muses.