Bleeding poetry

My poems are but whispers in the wind.

A silent scream in the dead of night.

A howl amongst wolves.

Crumpled paper and anxiety.

Dying hopes and smoke.

Embers of a fading fire.

Harbinger of storms.

But they are what they are:

Ink and paper.

The only place you and I are together.

Away from the world

A paradise of wishful thinking.

An escape

To you.

For a few minutes I'm higher than any drug could ever take me.

For drugs are science,

But you are magic.

Then the page ends

The ink stops flowing.

I wake up to the nightmare of reality.

I stare into the blankness of life and page,

Waiting to be drilled with the rantings of a dangerous mind.