Writers’ Topography

I sweat letters I bleed words. My whelps rise in prose. I’ve got bruises shaped like poems.

My blood is ink; my tissue it’s blotter. My hands are printers & I’ve got verses on my bones.

My skin is a infinite page; tattoos my prologue. My nails are commas; periods my moles.

I feed my body with the world & my mind with what it does. People fill my heart & soul.

My fingers & toes tap to the sound of typing; a rhythm like angels singing & devils dancing.

Is it any wonder that my professional proclivity is language & my inevitable romancing.

I walk to you leaving a trail of shedded pages in the hopes that you read the body proffered.

I won’t be around forever so don’t waste time procrastinating the volume offered.