Pain and Passion

I can't draw,
I can't rhyme,
In fact I can't do much at all...
I lack creativity and imagination,
Especially when I'm happy,
So I hunt good men
Like prey in the night,
And I prick my fingers
Over and over
On the roses they plant,
Bleeding all over them
Until there's so much blood
They drown in it,
Just to feel the 
Pain
Of their passing,
So I can pour it all
Into these pages,
And pretend I have anything worthwhile to say,
Basking in the validation of strangers
Who soak it up
And call it
Passion.