The long ink smears in my closed diary, now it glows fiery,
The leather’s worn, and my pen makes feathers mourn,
My lonely pencil shows dull, and the wind still blows cold,
I write of flowers, and how the stem when killed grows old,
It drops seeds and nectars, when it needs planned sectors,
So my pages filled, with different flows that are rages killed,
And every time I touch ‘cil to page, time stops like ages stilled,
Crumpled loose leaf, enemies now bigger, like obtuse beef,
Once I beat them, it no longer feels like an alleviated exception,
I snort their ashes, report their crashes, then sort the flashes,
And get a deviated wrecked septum, and I sit and watch mud rot,
I find my songs in my safe box, it sits where the wall stud’s not,
My red eyes have been blood shot, because the flood’s caught,
Each song written in sand, they where smitten when planned,
I have sand instead of an empty page, where I write and simply gauge,
My thoughts, follow my blood stream, seeing hell watchin mud steam,
My perscription, makes rotten teeth exposed, every word strips them,
The blue pills, give new thrills, their impression mimics my ink stains,
Papers all blow away, and I think rains, are making the college ruled lines,
I try to yeild and stop, I feel the top, but somehow I see fooled signs,
All of Satan’s favorite number’s fall, now they’re all just pooled nines,
The one inch margin’s are edges, rock hard, so it hardens hard ledges,
And Insides planted evil, right next to my new garden’s scarred hedges,
I made so many blades at camp, and I made those grenades that damp,
What I made what’s atop the light bulb, that right now shades the lamp,
My showing oddity, now being recognized finally, as the growing god in me,
I am mostly Zues’ lightning bolt, starting the world’s most frightning cult,
You can never confide in flowers, I can water them, I am Posiedon’s powers,
I have command over land and sea, I’m Ra’s one hand, shoulder, hand and knee,
I watch myself, but its hard to get ahold of cracked handels, like black vandals,
That were once evil, they’ve seen the burning light of the burning wax candles,
Now I’m walking in the footsteps of Jesus, see each of my feel lacks sandals,
I write on concrete with white chalk, but its brushed away, then crushed today,
By a light walk, I write the longest tongue twister, knowing full well I might talk,
And I might not, who knows, on this cloudy night, I’m hoping the blue shows,
My skin the color of a peach or a mango, I’m just about to dance with the devil,
He slants at my level, we dance the salsa, but he wants to teach more the tango,
I fall off the cliff, skin too soft to lift, his outstretched hand, a long reach, for I hang low,
But he throws me down, smokes me in hell, I plant a seed and he grows me now,
I die this time, that’s because of infernal timing, because of my internal rhyming,
I cant handle the list it, makes me so anomalistic, because of my laughs lost cupidity,
When Jesus and I, had a big argument, s once again our paths crossed stupidly,
And in I’m heaven I’m a bellwether, but somehow I think, in a way hell’s better,
I try to fall in love with my writing again, I’m fighting the sin, and I’m unencumbered,
Love seems to try and hide in the three seasons, and everyone has fun in summer,
But once in slumber, in a way to climb back, I’ll shout “sixes,” my mind hunts the number,
My mission begins, by listin’ three sins, losses prove, that I’m always missin’ free wins,
I’ll never lose again, without scabbing or healing, stair at my epidermis as I bruise the skin,