In the house of broken mirrors

I write poetry for pyromaniacs 
 on anti-psychotics who speak in rhymes.
I write riddles for every recluse,
 And sketch composites of psychic crimes.
 I write poetry for perverts,
 Daring the deviants to recite.
 I make lullabies for lunatics
 to sing to themselves at night.
The blacklight beckons 
 in negative shades.
Morbidity is manifest
by swallowing razorblades.
The pain somehow fades
but it never disappears.
Staring into perpetual disfigurement
in the house of broken mirrors.