I am at a point of time,
In which I find it hard to rhyme,

Inspiration are of the things I need
Otherwise I am afraid that I won't be able to do this deed
I need somekind of lead!

What can I write about, what can I plea ?
Who will inspire me ?
Ah, a little break might be just right
Maybe it will force my mind to open a light

~ Umi

Prompt: Describe a day in the life of a painter or artist**

Wake up. I tell myself for the millionth time.
I want to stay in bed, break away from the chaos I once called life,
but the crowd inside my head has been screaming my name for hours.
“We need you!” it continues to say, and although I want to fight back,
tell the crowd they are wrong;
that they are perfectly capable of living without me,
I know they will not stop unless I get up, they will not let me sleep.

So I get out of bed, slightly hungover from the night before.
As I slug my way to the bathroom,
I remember that even a celebrity
has the same ****** functions as a normal human being.
While I sit there, on the ***, the metal bar that holds my shower together suddenly comes apart, slicing across my neck as it break and falls.
Blood gushes from my throat and I gasp for breath through gargled pleas. Death takes me in the end and I sit on my toilet
until the maid finds my blood-soaked body.

The sound of a dog barking outside my window forces my eyes to open.  
I curse that this was merely a dream and not reality.
I flush the toilet and was my hands,
trying to avoid my reflection in the mirror.
I slither my way into my study and sit before my creations,
half finished and hardly something I would consider art.
Today is the fifth day I sit idealess,
unable to think as I once had of paintings to entice my fans.
The only thing I can remember is her…
how I have not been able to get the image of her mangled body twisted among the forgotten metal scraps out of my mind.

They had found her three weeks after she had gone missing.
It had only taken me two days to know she was no longer alive.
Since that day, I have not been able to produce a painting I enjoy;
no longer can my mind see colors for everything has turned black.

Frustrated I grab the sugarcraft knife that lies on the desk before me,
turning its sharp blade over gently in my hands.
For ten minutes I debate a decision that had already been decided five days earlier. I press the thin sharp blade against my neck and pull,
feeling no pain as it slices a thin pinking line across my throat.
As I await the sweet release of death, my blood becomes my final masterpiece.