For days like this
Some days Neruda tells me about love,
Some days Bukowski is my cove...
There are days when I mirror Plath in me,
All the fluid minds wrap me in their embrace,
While Angelou explains why the caged bird sings and I trace.
But on days like this,
I let my pen do the bleeding.
The blood clots and take the shape of words,
Deep, dark and continuously oozing.