Sobering metaphorsWriter’s block is like a market stock:It tightens its grip,Then plummets like a rock.
Critical ReactionJust stop for a second, hold on for me would you?Give me a clue, another moment or twoTo get back on track, on cue,While we reset the fuse—It’s a time game, not playing a rhyme game hereSo let’s start some shit,Trip the wire, andClick-fire-bang, another tragedy sangThroughout the chambers of congress,Through a loaded chamber’s complex;Round and around, round after roundSpinning out of time,Running out of crimes to count up insideSuch a constant divide—Round after round,The screams and the poundsTurn to star spangled streamers; the scarsOf the dreamers, these diamonds in the dustScrambling through the rough,Trampling over their trust, before the bridge has timeTo rust,To fall, far belowThe shadows of market stalls, the recycled puppet showExcept in the shade, who’s really pulling the strings?Which has the ace, and who has the spade—Is correction just collection at the bad end of a blade?You decide.In the end, it’
MortalityIt’s been said that animosity is a reflection of its beholderErgo, atrocityIs the perception of something bolder:Quiet and morose,Yet limited in scope. It defies hope,Yet exhibits itself in folly—--Enjoys its own fallingA rather stirring reminder of what it meansTo seek peace.And in it, pieces.The pieces of belief; the mortal reliefThat comes with a mind,And the horrors it seeks.Uncouth, meek—These are mental scarsFrom a time before the darkBecause there was never any light,Only predation and strifeAs well as the conscious choice presented:To kill, or die,Presented by a limited means of life.
The starving heartAn artist I am, and my heart bleeds for beautyNeeds it, believes it; and so I appease it,By brushing my blood with the colors of diseases:Liquid happiness and acrylic aromasOf viral octane, bring on the painMutate me baby, there’s always more to gain!Splice here, slice thatThe spices of fear are on the attackLet the pathogen grow, shut immunity downI’m in desperate need of a doctor right now, butAll I want is a brush, to shape the phases of this rushSo pump in the corrosion and let me go numb,Let me take in the surge of adrenaline and scum—Feel the purge, and with love, I’m unmadeFueled by affection it infects, invadesTakes me through valleys of plague, rusting genes, rotting cells;Painting, tainting, re-shaping this shellAs I trace the sickness through my veins, my glorious hell.An artist I am, whose heart bled for beautySo much so that it spilled out on the canvas.
CondemnationI wish I could sayThat there was some kind of redeeming feature to be foundAmidst so much destruction, so much avarice.That somehow, a single shard of light, perhapsStill remainedTwinkling in the dusty ruins,Like a star floating on the edge of the coming duskClinging to its moralityUntil the horizon awakened.Such a vain hope; I can see that nowFor our world is one of anguish, and denial,A wasteland of shifting eyes and cold fingersSearching, grasping, for a crutchOr a rail, to hold up their ever-growing insecuritiesNeutral and numb, skin like paper—Bleach against ink, running across a canvasAs gray as the mutant skyThat lies in parallel with these aged scarsCutting so deep, and longBut not quite as cold as one might expect,Because snowflakes won’t fallUnder the roof of limbo’s stall.