I Write Poetry

Crimson blood smears on ivory paper, mixed and scrawled with onyx ink, saturated dripping with tears.
Softly we read hard prose and deep rhymes, with rapturous verses, we hurt ourselves on pretty words like folded paper roses and their origami thorns.
Our minds read, eyes see, fingers trace, hearts beat, and souls long to feel, as we seek and consume the lovely destruction that is this, our papercut poetry.