He drove a pencil through the webbing of his palm.

I needed lead, he said, and then applied a balm.

He poured a morning drink, something he called a buffer.

He had a firm belief an artist has to suffer.

His every action aimed at feeling precious pain.

He walked for hours in the night beneath the rain.

He carved designs upon his arms with razor blades,

and painted pictures on his chest in blood cascades.

He took to chasing pills with whiskey as a perk.

He called it research; it was all part of his work.

One day he met a guy he knew and bought a gun.

He put a bullet in the cylinder for fun.

Each morn he’d spin that thing and point it at his head.

He’d pull the trigger and then figure if he’s dead.

One day no answer came and that was when he knew.

He’d blown his chance, he’d left the dance.

His writing days were through.