Is that it?
Are there no more words worth saying?
Could it be
That all my cuts and gashes
Have scabbed?

Is that it?
Is that where I derive my words?
From the old stubborn pain
Of a heart in shards?
Is my ink not simply
My life blood pouring out?

Is that it?
Is it so sad that I need
To hurt in order to spill rhymes?
Is it worth it to pick at old wounds
Just so I can make a bit of
Self indulgent art?

Is that it?
Does my mind simply become
Stagnant when it has no
Negative input?

Can't I write when I'm full?

Can't I write when I'm happy?

Can't I write whenever I want, regardless to how you left me?

Is that it?
A question I asked myself over and over
Is that it?
The only person willing to listen
To my pleas was an inanimate
Pad of college rule?
Is that it?
Is it?