Sorry if my poetry will seem dark and dead
My writing hand is tired and sore, as is my head
Induced by the twisting and turning, I bled.....
From the knife shoved in my soul while I lay in bed

This poem will never be finished, because like I said
My writing hand is tired and sore, as is my head
If I keep going I'll say bad words, like those in Ted
............................................behind the wood shed