I carve myself another line, bleed myself another word.
Put myself upon the page, every moment for all the age.
I carve my flesh another line, another drop of ink.
Blood works well when the well is empty
And I have enough to let my story drink.
So I carve myself again and again, thinking I’m bled dry.
Yet I live, I live, even as I wish to die.
So yet again, I carve myself another line, another drop of ink.