Bleed out my soul upon the page

for no good reason, other than ex-

hibitionism of the self, naked be-

fore the naked eye of humanity

for discourse, dialogue, dissec-

tion. Cut me up into a million

pieces of tiny, little, minute in-

crements in the type of words,

and let each one say, speak for-

th, fathom the depths that lie

in my ink-stained soul, until

I should become what I always

have been, however divided a-

mongst the bits of words that

lay splayed out upon the page.

Analyze, assess, assay, appraise,

adjudicate all the words written

down in the brain and soul dump

that is poetry–or some of it, at

any rate–and find therein a new

form of analysis and credence

for the next generation to abide

by as well as the older genera-

tions to react to. Let the ink of

my soul, which I have bled up-

on this very page be held up

as a remonstrance of poetical

license in rebellion against

the slick analysis wrought by

those who have never bled a

word of their soul upon the

white-sheeted, naked page.