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.