I’m writing a poem about blood spatter.
Do not worry I have not killed anyone so this will not be a confession.
There’s something about the strange way you look at me like a stranger I knew once in a dream.
Trying my best to stop beginning sentences with the word and in my poetry.
It was becoming a bad habit like seeing a Nun behind Jesus’s back or smoking in the bathroom between classes.
Almost did it again but I stopped myself before another and slipped from my fingers and exploded on the page like an unsolved murder.
There was a painting of a guitar case and the inside was blood red which made me think of Vincent and how he shot himself in a wheat field while crows circled overhead.
He wasn’t in the least bit mad and was probably the sanest and most beautiful human to ever grace our planet with his love and empathy.
I’m writing a poem about blood spatter or I’m writing a poem about a genius painter or I’m carving words out of the ether and leaving them laid out before you like the next day’s bloody sunrise.