"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


Running out of ideas,
We are
Seeking the bottom
Of a still bottomless abyss
To find inspiration
In the womb of purgatory;
Better yet,
The amniotic sac
Of it
And the blurry amenities
It hides behind itself,
…all the beliefs
I want for my teeth
To sink into,
And regale you with;
To let slide
The deviation I’ve come to:
That all of your protestations
Are erroneous,
Newborns of incubated
And so much
A registration
At the funeral
Of emaciated innocence,
The tomb of a
Age-old boredom in it’s
Blithe attempt at renascence.
A Nosferatu,
Of which you cannot escape
So thus you deign to
A residence within it,
Pleading to me:
In many forms
Mist, Wolf
Or titular Bat,
Your veil descends
With it’s manipulated colours;
A fever-dream-missing-link
An overcast dream
Cast over my life;
A missing link
Linking to some missing peace
I am trying to understand;
How can you be trained
By gods to just relieve this mess?
How can the mundane
Find you soft enough,
To conspire with all of this
So torpid refrain?
Do I still need beg concert from
The Heroes
And the Monsters Great,
Left behind by history
Remembered only by
The lust of intellectual industry
Revealing my missteps
Through my synastry with them,
To not be left feeling isolated
Fundamentally reviled
And so goddamn utterly
The opposite of correct,
Yet Adept?

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