Black inked words in tormented rhyme,
Voiced over remnants, a squence of lines.
Horrid beasts and bona fide fears,
A sequel to a life of ten thousand years.

Mocking the pain with a despondent blade,
Your scars, skin deep, all custom-made.
Complex phrases,  erected  and poised,
Your empathetic critics flail at your noise.

Yelling at God with animated screams,
Frantically running through a hailstrom of dreams.
An architect of expression, percariously gory,
Your alliance of narratives; such a glum story.

For one thousand cycles of Saturn,  plus ten,
Enwreathing red fires, my four walls ascend,
For I am the ink from your falsely held quill,
The essence of darkness in those dreams so surreal,
The stench from your pustules, vented for pleasure,
And that echoic pain,  by which  all pain is measured,
That critic, I am, you find in your bed, 
Slumber aft slumber, deep in your head,
The anguish you seek but never can feel,
You plagiarize pain, I make it real.