Missbumbles

His veins, filled with black raging ink - The penman's vampiric drink. Words spilling out, both dark and red For art's sake, has he now been bled. From his ribs, a combusting heart Over white, bloodied palms now dart. The tears of his mind turn to words: As they take flight as his red birds. The writing, has now been finished His ink bottle now diminished. Tearing a new wound for his pen He forces himself to go again. The priceless tool of his trade For the lavish art that he made. The ink he needed to make his art Without... How could he ever start? And so we have another youth; unaware That ink could be found anywhere