I scratch paper with pen tip
and words bleed onto the page.
A few are the right words.
I scratch out the wrong ones,
lines parallel like animal claw marks,
and I feel the throbbing pain.
I bleed more words onto page,
filling it to overflowing and then,
turning page to scratch up another,
Beautiful, clean, pure white virgin paper.
How could I touch it to
make it bleed for my pleasure?
And yet without pressure and pain
the page will remain simply itself.
It cannot create, carry, and bear
No, not without someone pressing in.
But in pressing through the pain
something can come to be —