A bright idea was just the fix,

A bit of "art" to get my kicks.



Exacto blades and magazines,

pasting landscapes,

splicing teens;



Expressing concepts,

but painting defeat,



I worked in bed

'till up crept sleep.



Sprawled in clippings

with violent dreams,

I thrashed and tore

at intangible scenes.



There I lie,

in sporadic REM

till bleeding I awoke again.



In shades of crimson I found my wrist,

assessing veins barely missed.



"Oops!" I thought, to myself with regret,

wearily pondering the fate I'd almost met.



Quite a cut I'd almost acquired,

the inadvertent cost of being inspired,



But if I spoke, I'd give advice;

I'd tell you not to sleep with knives.

.