Soul Blood

Sometimes we wonder where we left our hearts
stabbed once too fiercely
with a scarlet pen
Did we put the spark away
in a sun-bleached bottom drawer?

Once our manuscripts were conduits
for the soul's blood
starstuff injected
sapphire brilliant
raw as meat and piercing to the core

Once our stories meant something
hurt like hell
scraped out our insides
bared our arteries
for only that the world would beg for more

Storytellers, breathing as the collective "we"
so comfortable
wrapped in clean white sheets
and suffocating
forgetting just what we're writing for

When do we submit and trade our heartcry
for a skeleton
dancing for applause
Can anybody say?
Does anybody know?


Will we ever stop and ask ourselves
where did the stories go?

~ Alex Newman