A vicious attack* of that crackling brainiac anthrax
To give back to society
Slack then just grab the heat,
Feed it to the needy who receive it thankfully.
Call it *poetry.
Who could see repressed punctuality proceeded
By the kick of a hit or three?
Gimme these retrospective variants
To a counterpoint's last stand,
Or voices
Speaking to a lost cost for freedom
That rips at the rotting veins of humanity-
I stood up for what I believed in,
But the world will too crumble when the sun's light dulls dead.
You can call this rambling for something
To take the brain-scraping ache away-
The pain of the mistaken vacant escape.
Who's to say that we're all just thrown here
To die and to try to believe in something that exists,
And if we can't find it then we're lost and wrong and
Guilty.
Leave me barely breathing  if the seeing is now ceasing
To a state of gray monotony,
And melancholy monsters creeping
Out from under the bed where my habits sleep-
And threaten with a scratch, hiss and  screetch
To
Wake
Me
*Up.