I strike the page with my pen but nothing will come out. I slash at the paper in rage and the ink spills over the page. I vent my anger in every line. I rage against the structure of the words I write. I cut and slash the language to pieces as I try to extricate what lies deep inside of me. My rage and anger fills the air as ideas cascade out but make no cohesive sense. I spill the blood of ancient poets as I try to master my craft. With each vain attempt I slaughter what might have been worthy of the old masters. I vent new age words as my pen becomes a sharpened knife. A slash here and a cut there until I have bled over my master piece only to find out that I am out of ink and cannot continue the blood letting until I refill my quill.