I stare at my pen asking for inspiration,
The black ink dances with every stroke,
Shining for a moment then becomes dry & dull,
Search this jagged skull for one decent poem,
No wisdom to show them for life is barren,
I hold onto a sliver of hope that times change,
Perhaps in one hundred years I won't seem so strange,
But then I will be long dead with all I said,
The social pariah left to rot in lonely mire,
Death is my sire to teach me a lesson,
Will I obey or leave the reaper guessing,
Care not what others think or so I thought,
Fear that I've wrought for once forgot,
This streetlight was bright just a moment ago,
Now it turns black as my footsteps echo below,
What is this world a beautiful decay,
To which I descend the river of flames I lay,
Burning alive or maybe I was already dead,
With one million holes drilled into my head
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