Flowing poetry

With the slightest
prick,
these words flow
from me
like blood.
Gushing.
No effort
from my mind.
My heart pumps
them out.
Like the precious
blood it carries
throughout my body.
When the wound
grows numb,
the words lessen.
Disappear if not
caught as they
start to flow.
A puddle.
Small and red.
Remnants of
emotion.