I am like a man
That lives inside a very small cube
      **And is deathly afraid of corners

They say home is where the brain committed suicide* first
Hushed conversation overheard
Flushed worth down the drain
And as it spun
The dark corners never seemed so inviting
Enticing how the pain makes you notice yourself when no one else does
Reality is a setback that you've sat through and kept mum about
Contemplating the things that are all in your head more than things that actually are
You've already done it a thousand times
And accepted the indifference growing like vines that intertwine in your mind
Now your thumb is out and you're looking for a ride
Not any particular place, just "away"
Toward somewhere not quite like this

*You use a tied rope as a taxi cab

It only happens at night
This battle against temptation
This awful fight
During the day I'm alright
Because it's harder to sin when there's light
But when the sun goes down
It's harder to say no
And I hold out for days
But when that addiction comes knocking and scratching at my bedroom door
I can never tell it to go away

Every poem, every word
Every stanza
Is but a drop in the bucket

Sometimes the bucket is empty
Sometimes it's overflowing
To the point where even if I stopped
It would still stain an entire carpet

A poet's work is a work of art
Each line drawn with precision
By a pen filled by an open wound
Yet never staining the paper

Every drop, every letter
Every cut
Is purposeful; filled with intent

Sometimes the intent is release
Sometimes it's excruciating
To the point where if I stopped
I would feel its pain for decades

A poet's work is a careful slice
Each word chosen with precision
By a knife stained in blood
Yet never missing the mark

With every line, every metaphor
Every stab
We're bleeding for your enjoyment

Bleeding for our art
Until we have no more blood to give