Ghost Of A Dark Writer Poem by Ace Of Black Hearts

We are all our victims of our own thoughts.
There is a parasite inside my head, and I'm trying to get it out alive.
Death how punitive, so much desire for punishment.
The lace is eloquently weaved, and the trap is now set.

Oh dark writer how I wish I were still you.
My pain is only felt on the outside.
My tears have went dry.
Still searching the astrological skies for answers to the holy of whys'.

But it's not so difficult.
With a better understanding it gets easier to be not so demanding.
The idea of suicide and murder having been greatly diminished.
Not dead and gone, but more of it just doesn't belong.

A page turned, entering a new age.
Entering a new stage.
Bring about a new kind of rage.
A calm cool kind yet cold hate.
With indifference everyday it feels as if I might break.
Legs, arms, hands, feet, fingers, and toes just stop moving.
Frozen in time.

The portrait raised upon the stairs with such an angry glare.
Forever dead in the moment of a haunting ghostly stare.
All I have ever been looking for is just a little bit of closure.
And all I have ever felt is just a little bit more of the wrong kind of exposure.
Scars full of undissolved sutures.
Sewn up, to be shut up.
Righteous, but only within a mirror.
Who is the reflection if not me?