I look up, down, and all around.
My skull cracks open
and forms a crown.
Pieces of bone sticking up through the air.
Trails of blood mingling with my hair.
My thoughts spill out,
now they’re everywhere.
Coloring the world
without a care.
Onlookers notice I’ve got a flare
for writing you see
I’m a writer indeed.
It’s as simple as sitting down to a page and starting to bleed.
I smear myself all across the screen
and use the color from my broken heart to stain everything.
Everything I touch
and everywhere I’ve been
is just a blank canvas
for me to begin filling in.
My minds been screwed open
and unhinged so now
I stick out a little bit
From the seamless crowd
my head is creating its own bloody crown.
Because I’m queen of the world
that I’m creating for myself.
I can’t handle reality
so, I write something else.
I’m merging the real world and mine
one piece of my soul at a time.
Because that’s what real writers do
when they start to rhyme.
It’s as simple as sitting down to the computer
And bleeding a stain that’ll last through time.