Death By Metaphor

Every instance I inject my scribe sheet with my pen it becomes lethal
I can't help but think the sentences become more feeble
With every line I write past the margin, I feel like a graphic artist
With an inspiration similar to Guernica with my hand as an easel
So many rain forests have be sliced in two by my palm just so I could write
Nothing more than carpal tunnel when I begin to lose inspirational sights
My hand weighs heavy with nooses and loosened ties
Of words begging to fall victim to my pen and lay dead by the red lines
The verbs beg the ballpoints to pull the string
"Funny how the Bic caps look like hoods when they're executing me!"
Damn No. 2, look what you do to me!
Maybe poisoning the words to a point when sharpened just to settle with verbs
Curved esses lie right next to my pronoun stresses
In what seems like a beautiful decay of a garden with 2D addresses
I commit genocide when a relationship ends me
I can't get enough words to banana clip shoot off, or I begin to feel filthy
Until my paragraphs are fulfilling, my fingertips twitch in high voltages
Until ever phrase is emblazoned with no trace of ad libs in Young Jeezy dosages
I get to the point I get to force focused, I forget to take a breath or two
Indenting, revising and editing every drowning stanza until it's flexible
Unleashing a gas chamber of letters upon a pale tablet
With what seems like nothing more except various dead inspirations I've fashioned