Sometimes Writing is Like That

I keep a bag of blood beneath my bed
That’s turned into a moldy clotted lump
It oozes shades of fascinating red
And smells like something from a rural dump
I keep a second bag behind the stair
I haven’t checked on it for half a year
A third and fourth are sitting by my chair
A metaphor for hope and one for fear
And every night I tap a willing vein
(I tell myself the vein has got a choice)
And every drop of blood that I can drain
Before I faint is reason to rejoice
Then pale and weak I drag myself to bed
And dream in shades of fascinating red

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