Until the Ink Runs Dry

            I've heard it said
            writers bleed
            and sweat upon the page,
            each drop of ink,
            a drop of blood,
            each bead of sweat,
            a tear
            poured from the well
            of the soul,
            until it's parched,
            until the heart
            that pumps
            the spring
            of words
            is still.
            Even if this
            is so,
            I'll gladly 
            bleed 
            to death.
            I'll gladly cry these tears,
            ink-stained tears,
            until the day I die,
            until my pen falls from my grasp,
            until the ink runs dry…