You would think that a scream,
Ruins palatial thought,
But this is no drought,
My muse, inspired lout,
Can now move images on my screen.
I see our sickness, the same,
As I write to dissipate,
Although it is complex,
It’s designed for brain’s flex,
To create our mutual pain.
As my pen viciously scrapes,
To blacken the empty page,
Voices become potent,
Actions are more violent,
I see the meek and their escape.
Those who stay are now mentioned,
As they are locked in act,
A wish to be entertained,
If not they’ll be disdained,
For we could sit in life’s detention.
Our lines we write, but mine will count,
As is my need and want,
For they scrape theirs,
I string mine in pairs,
But I will listen to their odes no doubt.
But this merely but a thought,
Written upon a scrap,
I look up and see ill,
Of boy wishers and their pills,
Then I return to the drink I have bought.