Creative Process

All blades are a writing utensil.
I stab my heart and let the blood pour on a page.
My nails claw out my eyes to see any further truth to write.
Truth may not come but more inspiration does.

I yank my brain out of my skull and stab it.
It is rotten but I search through the remains.
The only thing I intent to do is find creativity.
Or perhaps I rummage through its remains to find purpose.

When my attempt fails,
I must rip out and search the mind of another.
If I'm successful, I spill more of my own blood.
If I fail, I move on to the next victim.