WHY I WRITE THIS

There's far more to say than you will ever see
but that's another story entirely
I got a little too pissed at my psychiatrist
for claiming I'm a satanist
getting ready to slit his wrists
while pissing on his face during a seminar
with fists tracing like tracers of scimitars
putting him in his place with ethereal guitars
blasting across the stage with imperial sound
blaring out rage in the background
cut off from prescriptions of effexor and xanax
to see new escalated electric perceptions
of amplified panic attacks
Rising in masses, no madness passes the ashes
to impale the asses of the entitled classes
All that I had has been taken away
All my paintings and sculpts, all I had to say
in pigment and molded clay and acts in a play
were stolen and put in another one's name
Now the pieces are lost to continue the game
yet my frame will always remain the same
New tools are always within my sight
and there is always something to embrace and to fight
and there is always some darkness that's always right
reflecting the lies of true light
They're always there to hold you tight
and beat you to a pulp in the night
There's always more stories for the sayers to tell
just as there's infinite glories within the layers of Hell
and there's always a way to express this true sight
so, hey, brothers and sisters in smothering blisters,
That's why I write