Raw

Create,

Stop and wince.

The art bled out

My cold, young hands.

No cuts in sight.

But my red nails,

They catch my eye.

Red,

For what's not there.

I never cut,

Nor burnt my skin.

All that I've done 

Is hold a pen. 

Create--

Stop and wince.

Close the notebook.

The birth pangs

Of something beautiful.

I know this pain--

It bares my soul.

I hope they'll

Forgive my passion--

I never meant

To hurt my hands. 

All I wanted

Was to create.

Now I can't stop.

Create--

Stop and wince.

Nails are red

From what isn't there.

Blood was never there,

Only ink.

Now I can't stop.

I can't stop.