Read-the-Wind

You breathe "I love you's" into my ear It's hot and heavy like all of my fears Those three words that I need Said only when you're inside me And when you're out, there's nothing left I may as well have been born deaf That simple line is lost in space Like smoke dispersing from this place Here I've become your pleasure tool I know deep down I'm being fooled But if it brings me close to you There's nothing that I'd rather do

First breath of air I take Thrust from the soil, I awake It's been an eternity since I opened my eyes At last success after thousands of tries This frozen world is silent; not a sound The snow falls from the clouds as I rise from the ground The icicles stare and the frost only laughs At the look on my face as I remember my past Sweet little ember in my heart Promise me that you'll never depart Warm my blood and return to me Melt the ice so I can see Sweet little ember in my heart Now our journey can finally start I wander lost around the frozen wood Northing makes sense if it even should The winter chill caresses my skin I'm not even sure

Inspiration is a lot like a knife. If you stab a person with a nice sharp knife, they're going to bleed. Perhaps you really need some mental help upstairs and you want to bleed the victim dry. Only then would you be satisfied. Inspiration is like a knife that can stab into one's creativity. That person's creativity doesn't bleed blood, but rather bleeds expression. That expression can be art, poetry, music, general writing, or any other outlet people use to express themselves. I was just stabbed by inspiration. That would be why I'm writing this. Now that I've got my blood on the page,  I'm going to go to bed. Goodnight.