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They are not random thoughts

Soldiers in my head marching

Shouting commands

Pick me instead

Warriors battling for space

Until they finally escape

Out of fingertips that were caught

Bleeding ink

~

They are not dreams once I create them

Now they are new creations

Of gardens and dancing neighbors

Blasting Motown from the work van

Eating alcapurris because I secretly want some

So I write the children’s book instead of cooking them

Out of fingertips that bleed ink

~

They are not passionate pleas falling on stubbborn ears

Of youth who rebel against the page

Instead they see my life surrounded by books

And navigate that way to

A small classroom housed inside the library to

A very room that is a

A place that holds the L’s and my heart

And an empty space that will one day be cataloged from fingertips that bleed ink

~

These words are not for my own purpose

To boast or capture fame

But to glorify the one who bled

And saved me by His grace

For every piece of writing

For every thought

And dream

For all the words not of my own

For all the writings left unknown

And for every character to be

I praise your name and thank you Lord

that you allow me to bleed ink

~

This poem is dedicated to my 9th grade student who said that I must bleed ink. I hope I encourage your love of reading, motivate you to keep achieving, and go after all your dreams. Each and every child that enters my room knows my love of books and how I pray they capture that love, too. Many do. Amen.