Case of the Drops

Hans von Gersdorff (ca. 1455 - 1529): Feldtbůc...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Each day, while the computer wipes
the crusty bits and bytes from its eye,
I sit and ooze ink onto this void of white
in a sort of 21st Century blood letting.
If I’m upset, happy, awed, confused
or even loving, I open up this verscular spigot,
and with a scratch drip drop drip,
I temporarily bring balance back
to my mind and body and provide
a vivid Rorschach splotch for you
to parse my emotional equilibrium.

This scratch drip phlebotomic release
has become more gash gush gush,
a venesective addiction I’ve yet to find
the where and how much to cure.
This worries me not because I am committing
such an unsafe and promiscuous sharing
of a quarter of my humors with you
(though you might find some phlegm
and yellow and black bile on these pages, too).
It’s that I know there’s only one way to stop it.
Stand back, I feel another one coming on.

Did you know Old George Washington
got bled to death, too?

11 thoughts on “Case of the Drops

  1. i would hate to think of my mental state if i did not bleed a little on the page each day…smiles…hopefully not as much as washington…he gave up nearly a third of all his blood…

  2. At first I thought you might be joining at TweetSpeakPoetry for the theme surrealism.

    I haven’t had to give up blood – sleeping yes, but not blood to write. Still, I feel “off” if I don’t write something every day. That’s why this poem resonates with so many of us, I think. Writing really is the best sort of therapy.

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