poem.

We all bleed in ways we can'y explain...

 

When we unfold our fears and doubts,

let the drips my legs shut out

They're so hard to restrain

 

Our blood is what our soul speaks in shouts

It's warmth seeps through my brain,

But blood runs cold if you try to live or love without

The words we hold untold, can never stop the stain of pain

In that, there's not a thing to gain.

No such thing, really, as bleeding out.