[brokenhal0]

'Ballpoint Cemetery"

This kill alone was not sufficient it don't stop the voices
it don't stop the visions and im quick to kill the opposition
my only writers block is a log soaked with the heart's of victims
plots and propositions prompts and compositions botched depictions
every page behind me tells of stories left unfinished
tossed away and ripped in half
crumpled within the withering knuckles of a writers fit of wrath

Masked man acting like a deranged infant parking lot of arby's
cosplaying with a axe large fries trunk full of naked barbies
A lucrative beheading is food on the table in bush meat party's
in these small towns, where conditions make soil to poor to harvest
never have they seen the treasures of a printers ink in a beautiful cartridge

I left it a mutilated plastic carcass , empty bottles bags of garbage
if the town only knew they be at my door with pitchforks and brown dockers
hound dogs and muskets in muddy waters i wade through thorny brushes
distant tears for phony lovers in a world full of ink who's drawn to exploring
the inner mechanics of a fountain pen that's been fully busted
hot coals remove the filmy substance


Breaking on the wheel was the cruelest form of execution for my newest song
condemned limbs were broken by angels swinging axes through the storm
tethered to the tension overweight man tall with nuanced weapons
smelling like a milk crate with a home in the hampton's
executing passions pick up the pen and stab'em in the face

Psycho tendency's I stalk my victims while drinking jimson weed tea
driving a chevy prizm wearing a helicopter beanie
two left feet that got rhythm they'll never see me
im living different lives like actors on TV.

I sell there kids ice cream and talk with the single mothers about nice things
little do they know the frightening manner which excites me occurring nightly
perspiration in my skin tagged armpits extra large gilden ink stains and markers
cutting can's of paint in my boxers wrongdoers often remained alive for hours
or even days. If there were unforeseen circumstances, I broke there legs
expressive origin coup de grâce.

A artist who tears apart every piece of art that he's wished
a arson of the heart gimme the axe and cedar chips
partially compressed feel a sharp breeze when the blade missed
a snake hissed
run threw the corn maze with the furrowed brow
a disheveled smile breathing heavy cause your lungs are foul

No one ever escapes no matter the style no matter the chase
no matter the color palate or display case stylus or quills
multi-ink twinks get there fountain waters chilled
calligraphy killer living in roller ball hell life executor
gel pens get molested until they quiver as well.

Don't trip cause when I chase you down it's scary
inside the trap door of my office drawer lie's the ball point cemetery.