Creative Drippings

Thoughts curse my mind
as the fashion trend
defines the times,
a series of crimes.

I write in this dark recess
of my thoughts
that plague me forever,
a series of crimes.

At some point this whole
world felt like an oyster
that closed itself
in a series of crimes.

This deadly game of
creative drippings
that wallow from the thoughts
of tears and crimes.

I've never done wrong
At least I think so.
Yet I'm constantly trapped in
these walls, all white,
covered in an owl's blood.

The wisdom arrives in
a subtle voice of
nothingness, the fires
coat the light in a decadent
degree of lies.

It is here,
and I am free.