There’s love on this page, though I write alone
a vexing process where the soul may bleed,
to cleanse the heart while other poets read;
For words, like blood begin within the bone.
Its something near a gluttonous release,
Transfusions from the marrow to the page,
Yet mixed with longing quite akin to rage,
(for) when muse is fresh we gorge until obese.
We mustn’t let fine words with pain congeal
or stop the flow of passion on the screen.
Dissected thought still tender, broken, green,
Repaired with careful sutures will soon heal.
Writing is trauma, though we gain command,
the power to heal still lies within our hand.
© Justyn W H Rowe 1999