Of old passions and young delights
Of raw prose and broken rhymes
I fumble through the strings of
This melancholy night.
Tire, fire, burn out with desire
Want, forget, and want to forget
This gift, this curse, this art
Open wounded bleeding steel.
Hemorrhage, the birth of a genius
A scion, the spawn of this ink
They never die, these demigods
Who live in sleepless dreams.
Pregnant, reluctant, lost in an instant
Love, hate, and love to hate
This gift, this curse, this art
Open wounded bleeding steel
In the grip of a writer’s hand.
