"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Diadem of Johnnie Dawes

Writers block in the human consciousness
Harsh abrasives tip the plume
In a mechanical animal claw.
This is not what I see
These descriptions entailed in reflections of me
Mirrors I’ve broken to glass knives refract
And stab in their poisons…
I’ve nothing to say nor sell
Of all my hell
These windows drew me pale this day:
In greys, four metres
I watch my features
Splinter on the whole
Length I dab my plume
Towards the shapeless
Shade-lost weakly
That was always hidden behind
(as a window now undressed)
This mess
Cleaving my brow
And with my blood
Drowns the floor.
And with all I’ve to report
Only a scratching gravel point
Just the blank of hue-less ink
And I’m too breathless to retort…
In flashes, for miles
I see wry smiles
And scowls
Both familiar and malign
The anonymous wince of you
In abstract banality
Are both fervent to be
Though never’s a divisor between
Of a lacking to glean
In the material that makes them
Enemies with me.
And we can’t even get a word loose
When I
I finally free some
It’s of these two evils
They’ve to choose
None’s the lesser one
Of all I’ve to paint and write from:
A musing gale
Converging mirthless muck
To contrast against it’s pale
Beneath my smirk in stride
Waiting at the tip, for me to dip
My misanthropic, rusted scouring blade
Tarnish these sparks it wished to fade
And slight this pain the shards have made…
A fucking crown.


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