writing is my ******* bane.

jeweled paws of inspiration
dangle that carrot to keep me running.

wring out the baby with the gray matter,
spool it like spaghetti, slowly get fatter.

i was under the distinct impression
that this habit was too large a vent

until i left it somewhere in July
between the Yuba and a car ride

and never quite calmed down

it's my solace, my oak-tree,
haven in the hellishness,
clarity to ugliness,
Gilead balm,
panacea.

why
should it
take such tolls--
to push too hard
is to turn a deaf ear

my ear ain't so sharp
and my brunt is still strong

Welcome to the bottom of the rabbit hole.
Here lies Babylon dead and gone,
but you can have it all if that’s what your after.
Though I don’t think it will matter when it shatters on the ground.
Never have I, ever, made or heard a sadder sound.
Still, to the victor go the spoils so I didn't uproot and move
I ripped my brain stem from the soil.
Now with little to no relevance withering pedals of pestilence represent my intelligence, I fell against this hellishness to find myself comfortable and content.
I wonder what it all meant, as I sit amidst the madness I had this vision of slinking back into the blackness, like the light is too bright for me, but it just so happens the darkness wrongfully longed for me.
Alas my past filled up so fast; Hot breath on cold glass.
So I continue sitting in my throne of obsidian tapping my pitch fork on my thick horns and rubbing my reddened skin.
Searching for something to say to them and then, all thoughts of this onslaught stop when a voice rings
"Thank you, for all the tar and featherings, you have given me my angel wings."

There's a nemesis on the premises

watching through the crevices of my hellishness

watching the precious homage paid to my delicate testaments of corruption and bitterness

yet to know observation is venomous if hesitant

the evidence is irrelevant while you wait on a settlement of peace from a benevolent king

back stabbing sentiments have no precedence over the decaying elements of my eloquence

not one finger can touch the decadence of my mental inhabitants

with whispers of shadows within their em-battlements

some go celibate from the spiritual experiments

in villainous line scrimages

consumed

with images of pillaged villages

baffled

in the battle to dismantle the soul scandals

manhandling rambles through foolish gambles

we each blow out our own candles

Left for dead

Strangled