The fingers raw and palms tired
The poets dead at the desk
With not a drop to drink
In his mind trying not to sink

Melancholy words were all he had to show
The rest he'd send where his needle would go
In his last expanse, most desperate trance
His letters were naught
In his final rattle and dance

The tears he always fought
All he was, was all he wrought
And with 25 lines and his composition view
He kissed the ice
As the needle pushed him through

So from the terrace
To the mezzanine
And all that remains so serene
I am baffled by the view
Its not what there is to see
Rather what it means to be
What the eye betrays and the mind deceives
For the feelings of the heart are what the soul perceives
Surely I cannot be so vain?
To the reader this is inane!
As a writer with pipe and lighter
These trifle views are a shame!
The windows of the soul are fogged with bad advice.
Because in a time of negativity.
Never saying never, never happens twice
When all you see is serendipity

Ivory empires evaporate
Iron oxidized depression
Its cold blooded calculus
All for one, one for oppression
Anarchy by Gucci, fabulous

The decision is order
The collision is reason
The choice is yours
In the mindf&%$ season

What is law? He said upon the dais
We are raw, for who dares to try us?
These sympathies for psychos
Have gotten a little contagious
They took mental Illness
Went and made it famous

I'd rather break bread with Judas
Then compromise my clarity
Because this last supper is ruthless
Where good men are murdered for sincerity.