I Stole

At one point in my life I felt everything I wrote was stolen from someone else's genius. So I wrote to pour out my feelings and this is what the result looks like. Everyone goes through a time like that I think. That's why I post this poem to my wall so that you might feel someone understands what you are going through. ('Words' in this poem or expressed as "blood." Frogs are your troubles, doubts and tornemts)

I stole the Rabbit from his hole
I stole the Moon from the sky
I stole the Image from the writer’s eye
And I feel sick
Like a tick
Whose drank too much of the blood that's not his own
So he starts to foam
Foam with fear, foam with hate
Foam with fear that he'll never have blood of his own
But he won't
As long as he bites
And he draws
Pictures of him with frogs
Frogs of gore frogs of dark
Frogs that burp livers and swim in shadows they're ugly things aren’t they says Her
The cricket on the hearth
Who chips warmth I am too numb to feel
Can I feel?
I didn't feel when the frogs imploded
They exploded
Over my mind dripping on me their filth from inside
And I didn't cry
Like the tick I slowly died
But all inside
Because the blood was not my own
I drew pictures of me on the phone
With a plagiarism old crone
Whose name was not inspiration but devastation
How could I have ate
All the bait that she fed
Like a rot from inside
Like the malice in a murderers eye
The Rabbit when in my sac
The Moon in my paper backpack
And the Image I ripped and I shred
Once it was in my head
Because I was jealous that wasn’t my own
I twisted every hair on the rabbit
I hammer and pained the moon
Till the looked like the crone
Who called me in my head
Rest your head now says Her
I will pray your mind gives no more flashes
Of the sin you think you drew
But it isn't true
Sin came from a flock of ticks
That bit the napes of frogs
But I
I Am a tick said I
A tick who sucks the ink of genius
The cricket chips
She laughs a burp
She says you are only a laughable flea