Can't Kill What is Already Dead

No tourniquet or
White hot cauterization
Ever eased this
Self-inflicted flow
Of severing limbs
To silence the page

Trying to carve the muse
From this heart
With one hand remaining
While poisoning the tumors
In my brain
Left the ink
That much darker
And harder to read

All my efforts
Just a sticky
Delicious mess
Beneath the lingering
Pleasant odor
Of burnt hair