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Pour me a glass of liquid poetry
Salted with a poets tears
Possessed by the spirit
Of flaming artistic pain
Not one drop of ink remains
Everything I love is gone
My heart is numb
All that remains is the poems
I write and songs I hum
No matter how much I scribe
I’m still not done I reload
My smoking gun
I’ll be dammed if I be done
I was born with a black thumb
I leave my prints on pens
My ink is made of tears and blood
I will do something before I die
I be damned if I die and did nothing
Everything in my life is writable
With my voice I recite my plight
I dig deep in the inkwell within
My weapon of choice is my pen
My drug of choice is my highs and lows
My love for poetry is hypnotic
The first kiss was like chronic
My need to write my screams
Is like a disease
One poem is too many
Two is never enough
Pour me another
I'm out of ink again
