HELP

-this is a cry for help.  
   
   
   
   
   
so long since I felt the edge of a blood-slicked razor's tongue  
cutting me like a critic  
so long since the deeper hues of forgotten gasped their way to the surface & choked    
gills flapping in the crosswind    
washed up  
on the shitty shore of reality  
   
my puppet strings are slackening  
so if I'm short of thought because  
the ink I used to write in has run dry  
what harm can it do to dip my fingertips in the River Styx  
just one more time  
   
frightening    
I don't know how far I'd go    
to be a genius