He is a writer
Scrambling for paper
The moment he is inspired
Asking for second opinions
On whether his words fit
His ideas travel lightspeed
So he strays a bit
Crumbled ideas by the bed
He worries they're no good
But, that's just what the voices said
He's his own worst critic
He had a breakthrough
But he just cant fit it
Into the small setting that he placed
Worry sickens his face
All this hard work
But nothing to show
He didn't see this coming
Just a few weeks ago
He scrapped it all
It was tainted
He tries too hard to face it
See, there is nothing wrong
Not from the start
My love,
Your words are such art
My rambling writer
My paranoid poet
You made the patches of your story
Point your pen
And sew it

When my finger met the paper, in a brief love affair, it took my blood as a trophy.
Then the red droplets created a beautiful mess as they sank into the dead white wood.
It stung badly, and it continued to hurt as I went on a mission to find a bandage that
could keep the crimson art inside of me, instead of spilling it everywhere.
When I wiped the excess blood away I saw nothing, yet I was still in pain.
But what hurts the most right now is my heart, because just like I couldn’t
see the papercut, you can’t see my broken heart either, and it is bleeding heavily.
Because of you.
And I can’t seem to find a bandage big enough to heal the
hole you left in my dying heart.