Cachaemic

She grips the knife as it slips,

Rip.

It bites into her flesh,

Drip.

Her dreams are wicked,

Her eyes, they're sickened,

But the ink, it comes,

Despite.

The ink it comes,

Despite.

She gasps out loud,

No sound.

Her mind it rushes,

The ground

In the face of her talents,

That mind is unbalanced,

And black is her blood,

On paper,

Black is the blood

On paper.

It spreads throughout,

The words.

Her sense, it screams,

Unheard.

To hold back the disease

That trembles her knees,

She finds normality

Inane.

Normality, it is quite

Inane.

And all that she knows,

Is all that she shows,

The blood it flows,

(the blood it flows)

The ink, the blood,

Ink and blood,

The ink and the blood,

They know.