My ink, my blood

The blood that fills my veins
the ink that fills my pen
my soul lives in the lines
of any word that's ever been

expression can be found
within these words I write
poetry is my devotion
my pain and my light

to be alive without expression
is to lose the gift of breath
my lungs should be empty
as my fingers embrace death

my life, my sweet vitality
built with words I love,
the refined symbol of life
As God did send a dove

There is no pleasure,
Nor any life to fufill
If one day I should find
No ink upon my quill.