What it's like to write.

Like your insides are heavy
and you’re being carved up
there goes my finger,
I guess I dont need her.
My heart’s on the table,
my brain on the floor
how long until I bleed out?
Who knows
give it a couple more poems,
and I’ll figure it out.
No one becomes a writer for free
they give up their kidneys
while taking stock of inventory.
What’s left on the cutting room floor?
What’s left of me?
Nothing but ink-stained fingertips
still gripping the pen
that had to be surgically removed,
before it’s off with my head.