In the house of broken mirrors
By man of decay
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.