How do I get inspired with a brain so wired when fragments of my conscious now refract the splintered image of an idol which once stood above me as the root of every rhyme that spilled from pen to paper? Now all I see is an ever-shrinking divinity. as apathy interjects to dissect lukewarm affinities it’s never long before the names of my deities sit like formaldehyde on my tongue. Apologies are clichés excuses are formalities they’re just words that escape through the smoke that chokes your lungs after you threw your last manifesto in the fire. Now I’m left with the silence of the hangover using rage as a muse to thrash against the page with poetry from the ashes of what you once created when your anger wasn't so understated.