My Fingers Bleed Poem by Saint Cynosure

The tears that wash the dirt from streets,
that flow beneath this poets feet.
All but wash and cleanse the space,
thats laid to waste before my face.
Crumbled sheets of words gone lost,
never written for the page.
Single in the sounding bells,
that ring in the new age.
An age in search of betterment,
a counting unto stories.
A building up to point the way,
that is found within the letters.
Leaves a price so step to pay,
for to the reader I'm the debtor.
All to more I must admit,
within my darkened room.
The task that has be fallen me,
has my soul colored gloom.
So hard it is to please myself,
more less to please another.
My fingers bleed the paper red,
thats covered floor,
desk and bed...