I grasp my notebook and retire to my bed
And thoughts dance around madly in my head
But these ideas will never be spoken, nor heard, nor read
Because before they can take flight, I will crush them dead

A creativity flows with purpose through my veins
So I slit my wrists and let it all drain
My blood splatters across the paper and leaves an imperfect stain
But I soon realize that my efforts are all in vain

These poems sprout from my pencil tip
Entangling my paper with the flowers of my mad mind trip
I mumble them aloud with a parting of my lips
Then abruptly, I begin the inevitable strip

The stripping of my notebook, my heart burns with cyanide
As I knowingly commit this dreaded homicide
It is as if they are my babies, and I a blushing new bride
Who feels guilt for murdering her own children, it is a shame that they have died