Archives for posts with tag: spilled ink

There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

-Ernest Hemingway

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My pulse races with time,

A quick, exhilarating marathon.

The razor’s edge does not speak for itself,

For the wound is its witness.

Repulsive,

Bloody

Infliction.

Every pen is a sword in its own right,

And to write is to duel with the mind.

 

I gave this piece to my friend to read and she pulled me aside and asked,’ Are you thinking of cutting, are you okay?’ I found this funny because when I was writing this, self harm didn’t even cross my mind. Disclaimer: This has nothing to do self harm or blood or razors (well, at least not intentionally 🙂