The Artist

A papercut to the finger, a few words are born.
Words that sting your soul and draw your attention in more so than ****.
Words of love?  No more like words of scorn.
The day I die shall be a day you all will mourn.

A razor blade cut across the wrist, a few lines emerge.
From my heart, the darkness must be purged.
Attacking with crippling pain, it leaves my soul scourged.
Driven apart, the heart and soul must once again merge.
Regain myself and prove to all that once again I am in charge.
**** all who get in the way of my search
of discovering my true place on this plane known as Earth.
Leave me the **** alone and go back to worshiping the ****** Mary in your precious Catholic church.

A shot gun blast to the ******* head, blood pours down my ******* face
covering my entire face in red, my fate I come to embrace.
Blood flows into my mouth, I like its taste.
It’s laced with venom, so to you it would taste like toxic waste.

I take off my shirt as blood flows over my chest painting it red.
May this be my look on the day I finally wed.
Blood continues to pour out of my cracked open skull so I remove my pants as well.
Blood flows all over me covering me head to toe, isn’t that just swell?

I gaze upon myself in a mirror and marvel at my inner beauty.
Before I fade away and die, I have one last duty.
Completely covered in my own twisted blood feels right,
so here I go spilling it all out for you here tonight.

I take out a special pen and lie down on white paper.
This is my destiny you will read about in the local newspaper.
With blood soaking my pen, poem after poem spills out of my head.
These are words to inspire, not words to fill your heart with dread.
This is where my inspiration comes from.
This is me laughing as you nervously **** your thumb.
The words that spill out of my heart and soul are rich with meaning.
I’m tired of living with this ***** who’s so demeaning.
No one believes in a single word I say.
No one believes I can rediscover myself and build myself back up.
No one understands the pain I feel on a daily ******* basis,
that I bleed out in these twisted ******* poems.

I’m lost and spiraling out of control.
When the **** will I ever escape from this ruthless black hole?
These words I write, this art I create, is the legacy I will leave behind for all to find.
I am struggling and hope you reach out to help me instead of turning a blind eye
because I want you to appreciate my work before I die,
instead of gaining fame after death for all the wrong reasons.

I plan on rising up from these ashes like I have done before,
otherwise, I will fail and become another one of Satan’s ******.