I think my blood flows thick with creativity when I’m not ok;
Because the ink flowing from my pen comes out on the paper more than ok.
I didn’t take my medication today. In fact, I don’t remember the last time.

I wish I could bleed myself dry when I’m like this, then
Later, feed my blood into the mouth of my pen;
I could spill my thoughts onto the paper anytime.

When I’m on it I feel like my blood just wants to clot,
And I can’t get on the right track; I get writer’s block.
But when I’m off it I can go off on a tangent and not worry where I end up.

I’d like to be able to soak the paper in my ideas all the time.
But I’m afraid that if I don’t take it, one day they’re going to find
Me lying stiff on the pavement, eyes glazed over starring up.

I won’t have done anything but go on being myself.
But my body will up and give up since my mind refused to help.
That’s when they’ll find me starring at nothing at all.

So hook me up to some machine and feed me through the I.V.
Let me hide behind my own façade of redbrick-faced ivy,
I’m going to bleed my words into the paper, until I am through with it all.