I'll cut off my ear for you dear, but don't gogh.

I'm not a word smith

I don't strike iron

But irony strikes me

Pretty peculiar

The lines I give birth to

Full of wisdom

Yet I don't heed

I craft my rhymes with a whittling knife

Form a pencil, stab myself in the heart, then write

I bleed on to this canvas

With each beat squirting splatter

You could finger paint a red Picasso

But face it, your frame can't hold this much gray matter