Antisocial Miracle Worker

I shit miracles on the masses waxing lyrical about their passive back passage,
Black ink is a beautiful thing suitable for surfaces lacking purpose,
But alas in wonderland the callous and underhand hold the sun for ransom,
And I stand stunned with a knife of darkness plunged into the depths of my heart’s artery,
And I wept silently for the parts of me I left behind,
Let my mind be free, I tell this wretched body,
I live trapped within my head, art is not a hobby,
It’s a product of my belly and the many melancholy moments I spend alone with strangers,
Pages of faded ribs and an old spine holding my soul in,
My back catalogues a gold mine of blemishes,
And this half of my hemisphere is heavy-headed,
An empty handed attempt at shaping the land that I walk upon,
Swallowed by the metaphors born inside my bedroom walls,
Quit your nine to five and die for a better cause,
I’m only bitter cos I would have preferred,
To say fuck the bank, give my two cents to the birds,
But instead we kill them one stone at a time,
Men cement the skyline and don’t bat an eye,
You can sell your soul, but can’t buy peace of mind,
I need a decent rest,
My deep sea sleep pattern is a fragile fractal,
Let me flee the nest,
And escape the pterodactyls and their manufactured lies,
I live a fractured life captured by still frame,
I watch the film unfold in fragments and fail to feel the pain,
I will the rain to come in floods and wash the world away,
And won’t delay my divine demise to die another day,
I’ll find another way to end this,
Sentence and its ten amendments,
Inky inmates in the pen,
Paper prison,
Home again.