The clouds are raining on my fire escape in an unusual rhythm,
And the droplets are wearing down the peeling black paint with their vigorous beating,
Thrashing on and on in that familiarly grating pitch.
The instruments blasting from my tiny speakers love me
Like a little girl loves a puppy, or a murderer loves death.
Strange visions splash across the white pages in my leather bound book,
The way love spills over my leather bound body and submerges it in glittering promises,
Leaving me writhing and gasping for breath in the ocean of that intense desire,
So I'm forced into complacency, ordered to my knees and
Wrung like a sponge until I'm empty and twisted, and still dripping that eerie auburn hue
In puddles around my immortal magnificence,
While the throwaways of our era crush my skull with their massive hatred,
And stomp out the flickering remnants of my sanguinity.
The lust of the American normalcy makes us laugh,
And pull grotesque faces to frighten away the kiddies.
So that's where they hid the sorrow gripping my hollow chest, the guilt—
They buried it in my love of mankind.
The sudden influx of these bewildering images fills me up completely
In a shocking wave of inspiring creativity that may or may not have derived from
My fear of oblivion.
For now, I let my hand rule my head and heart, so I don't have to think,
And so the blind whore in the tutu dancing endlessly in my mind can
Finally have her chance to flash the world.
This unlikely inspiration has taken me by unsettling surprise,
Especially after that recent happy tragedy,
When we were all so cruelly raped of our beloved childhoods.
Damn it.
The rain will not stop its downpour, and my brain will not stop leaking this nonsense,
But I lie back and smile at the complexity of my simple future,
Knowing it can't be all that bad
So long as my books are filled and my hands retain control
Of the fury screaming up a tempest inside my bulging, itchy veins.
At least I'm unaware of what's to come tomorrow.
If I knew, I'd likely run,
Like the children from my golden grin and crooked eyes,
Which so disturb the general public.
Ah, but they'll never experience the greatness that we do,
And we'll not share an ounce of this extreme pleasure, for it is ours.
I cackle in giddy excitement, twirling my ebony pencil cheerfully
Between my long, bleeding fingers.
Oh, if only they could feel what we do when we're on stage, when we melt onto paper.
I'll be so sad to leave them after those four long years of anguish and bonding,
But the memories will haunt me like an angel from my past over my shoulder,
And I'll be glad for it.
Forgetting these years would kill me, though remembering them will hurt.
Perhaps it is the rusting past that's infected me and spurred such gruesome imagery,
Inspiring me to be something better and more fearsome than what I am.
Whatever the reason, the crusted edges of my fading heart are crumbling
As the organ bursts with old love and possibilities of the new,
So I crawl towards the sinking moon with my hands outstretched, begging
For the looming days ahead to be as satisfying
As the colorful years I'm leaving behind.