A notebook that bleeds

Talented painters of the written word have described many times how their passion remains unique and true. So these words of mine, I’m afraid, will not really stand apart to you. All I have are some rhymes, some lines, some thoughts, just a select few. Herein hides conversations that I have with myself too. I write tonight with a quill made of memories and ink collected from the morning dew. So as you read these pages, pause for a moment at 42. You will come to realize that my heart belongs to her, but that you already knew. My love did not really subside after that night, in fact, it only grew. So now my soul bleeds in poetry, bright red mixed well with a tint of gray hue.