My Best Work

I am not a masochist

But I do write like one

Why am I only inspired when i pick my own scabs?

Why is it only worth something if it is penned in my own blood?

I wish my writing was pastoral

The language floral

But it is earthy and metallic

Like suckling buried pennies

I hope it strikes

I need it to strike

So I can go on

So I can gather material.