Writer's Boon

I suppose she confused my inspired inertia
With cement thoughts
Not yet abused still practically unused
And hoped I kept them piled up

I balance upon fishing line tight ropes
Feet strapped in wooden stilts
Peering down at the broken glass
My reptilian complex might not cope  
My brain squirms for soon it wilts  
To leave nerve ending petals
Tossing and crumbling in the wind

I drank your blasted cure
This inured only deeper
A bastard concoction
Tiny slimy hands that beat her
Kiss the hand that bleeds her
Penning a blood-soaked doctrine

Broken headlights
Strange shadows
Outline beams that shoot through the night
Labyrinthine luminosity through the darkness
Entangle my heart strings
Or snap them trying to tune
Fragile without my nightcap
Unable to sing at the moon
So I fill my skullcap full of goon
From the wisdom sack
Of the tearful, crooning loon