Messier Ink [Poetry]

My lips are stained crimson from the words that have spilled from them;

nasty verbal knives to slash at still-beating hearts.

No one told me, growing up, that even without a weapon,

I would be a warrior.

No one warned me that life was war, and that when blood spills,

it smears as you clean it up.

I take to the battlefield with pen in hand, unprepared 

for the fight required to keep me standing.

Someone once told me there's more than one way to fight;

with words, and with weapons.

I don't believe the pen is mightier than the sword,

just not as messy.

We both use different shades of ink; I spill mine on pages,

and you spill yours on pavement.

No one told me, growing up, that my arch-enemy

would be the one I love.

No one warned me that love was war, and at the end of the battle

both hearts would be sore. 

Copyright 2014 | Jazelle Handoush