There is a monster in my head,
That cannot be killed by bullets of led,
And needs always, craving, to be fed,
So be careful how close you tread,
Or you’ll find yourself
Dare I speak the truths of my heart?
Can I disclose the darkest parts?
In search of the bottom I did start,
But have yet to reach the inverse apex of my art,
In the depths my morals fly
As another brittle day dawns,
We are nothing but wooden pawns,
Despite the illusion of our bygones,
Our future is solid, set in bronze,
And death is our final
Jagged hands puncture and rip,
They wiggle and squirm for grip,
To procure a different end to this trip,
No matter how my soul may crack and chip,
And thoughts, like saliva, must
Dare I speak of the emptiness of being dead?
The monster that is my thoughts flies apart.
We are beholden to the immortal on the corner, our john.
Our existence slips through the cracks with a drip, drip, drip…