I'm not a word smith
I don't strike iron
But irony strikes me
Pretty peculiar
The lines I give birth to
Full of wisdom
Yet I don't heed
I craft my rhymes with a whittling knife
Form a pencil, stab myself in the heart, then write
I bleed on to this canvas
With each beat squirting splatter
You could finger paint a red Picasso
But face it, your frame can't hold this much gray matter