They say that it’s easy to write,
That all you have to do is bleed on the page.
After feeling the blade of that knife so many times,
One begins to wonder…

How much more do I need to bleed?
Until my fucking soul can be at ease?
Until all those fucking thoughts in my mind are laid to rest?
Until I can at last be fucking content?

Each time cutting yourself,
Reliving memories, events, conversations,
Long since forgotten by others.
Picking apart, dissecting, and analyzing,
In search of that moment of raw humanity.

Eventually the blood stops flowing,
The cut scabs over.
Yet, the soul grows restless,
Needing to expose more of itself to the world.

The bleeding becomes addicting,
The emotional pain becomes a validation of your worthiness as an
Artist.
A benchmark which you judge yourself by,
To see if you truly pushed yourself.

The words are bouncing around in your head,
But it needs your blood to come to fruition.
You cut yourself open once again,
Bleeding out slowly.
As you are reminded of how painful it is,
You begin to wonder…
How much more do I need to bleed?

~Raul Felix

Read: What It Is To Write
Read: She Was Traveling Through My Country
Read: Why Should I Write About Her

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