I'll cut off my ear for you dear, but don't gogh.

I'm not a word smith

I don't strike iron

But irony strikes me

Pretty peculiar

The lines I give birth to

Full of wisdom

Yet I don't heed

I craft my rhymes with a whittling knife

Form a pencil, stab myself in the heart, then write

I bleed on to this canvas

With each beat squirting splatter

You could finger paint a red Picasso

But face it, your frame can't hold this much gray matter

Reviews

[TheBubbleManiac]

Hm. It was a bit of a confusing poem to me, yet it struck a light bulb in me. I'm not sure what to think of this mysterious poem. It makes me question many things this person is doing. Like, why would he splatter his on blood onto the blank canvas? Was he trying to prove himself to someone, or show them the meaning of something? -> "You could finger paint a red Picasso
But face it, your frame can't hold this much gray matter" It makes me wonder if he is maybe talking to the canvas itself. But this was enjoying to read.