He pours forth his anger.
It gushes, in torrents, across the page.
That page has waited well for the words and their rage.
And his rage is pure!
Untainted by compassion or humor -
Roadblocks to the true expression, of true pain, in true poetry.
His world is rotten.
His soul? Dark to the nucleus.
His pen? Just run out!
Just before its purest rage to this very day had found its ink.
Had found its paper.
Now that rage must stay in his hard head.
Must remain un-penned for ever.
A few sick people care for his sick work. He hates them too.
They must forgo this dark gift to them.
It will remain sunk deep in the dark mind of the dark poet.
He still believes, with a firm faith, that all hate him; as he hates all.
He knows no one gets it.
Gets his grave verse from the graveyard.
He sits down at his desk; thanks God for His gift to him.
And what is that holy gift? True poetic gloom; true poetic misery.
If this world were all right, he’d simply cease to write.
Ah yes! No more of those diatribes against the world.
No more spurting gastric juice over the stalkers outside.
He’d remain inside his Other-proof refuge.
But he’d know well the revenge for such a silencing -
One last fleg… one last filthy fleg, right into the eye of the world.
A fleg into that collective eye; still safe on the outside.
Still in its castle blockade; trying to starve our anti-hero out.
From where it spies and pries deep into his insides.
Into the outside of his inside.