Nothing but foul bed bugs
Filling the holes in my brain
The macabre can oftimes seem mundane
Or excusatory, even pretentious in tone
What’s more profound than the morbid thoughts of a puny whipster
Can reflections so defiled by pessimism ring true as gold?

Is living through rose petals more befitting of art such as this
Droning on of garden’s sunbeams?
Or do the melancholy mutterings of a heavy head so ghoulish and grim
Mean more than the blithesome fervor of a soul
Not tainted or scarred in such a way as this;
By the absolutes and certainties of this life
And lack of therewithin-
Does such purity equate to disillusionment?

Knocked off course so viciously
I feel so good,
so visceral and clean
Yet deeply ungraceful
Making armistice with these Devils proves paragon
To amity and peace within
The alternative to internal conflagration

Release them,
But only when vital
Kept on a shortened leash
They are not inclined to seek abdication
But with absolute suppression they shall,
Exact their Revenge