Bleed

We pour our hearts out in ink barely words. Snuff out the kinks in every verb.

We shine the brightest when we use our pens.

Even when we are hurting we will never use a sword.

At least not until the pen is laid to rest... The words jotted down and we are slightly less depressed.

In our writers chair, bed, or stool.

Gazing at the sword, this ugly tool.

We decide to pick the pen back up to bleed out our hearts and throw away such measly things because writers love their tools — this is the best art.