Revoking poetry

Inspiration often dies
in the minds with broken glass
that cut and bleed for insight
if knowledge has let them drown
It feels like I'm fourteen
when I thrived in misery
when I disregarded decorum
when the best kind of cigarettes
were the kind that burned porcelain flesh
And pleasure
was artificial
or blissfully chemically induced
Self pity
Is so God damn aggravating

My passion is capitulating
Fading in quarantine
Split open
like the sweetest wound
Cadence with my bitter thoughts
What happened to that artist?
With the far-sighted eyes,
And the finger tips of avidity?
A perfect metaphor
for the obscure mentalist
was an easy lie
Before reality caught the cynic
and her canvases where duck taped
with sole and opaque mediums

This dictionary
it thirsts for forbidden parchment
for the distinction,
the diction,
of a manipulator with words
But the verses are guilty
distorted
they don't deserve animation
When the words are stained with liquor tears
and they mirror tunnel vision
The same pathetic fucking poem
as any another depressed reject
I'm now revoking poetry
if all I can write is bullshit