soliloguy on fortfeited lunacy..

i design these words   
to find back to my thoughts 
which are scattered, erosed, defused and make no move. 
I am not a host of my mind 
a fraudulent psychotic   
i think all the time on antonin artaud 
who cared his fate of madman with pride, 
despite unbearble pangs.. 
and he prefered to go mad, rather than   
forfeit a certain higher idea of human honor. 
while i finally after 10 month incarcernation   
have surrendered myself to resignation 
i try hard to prove to my vis-a-vis   
i am not mad but just misguided in my belief on indie amiticia 
instead to write verses for selfterapy or for elusive joy 
i constrain pain, treachery and dissapointment 
disappointment and pain 
whereas i no longer improvise   
crazy chants 
like one fresh poet i read makes saucy poetic shards... 
nope i dont record anylong my delirium chants 
like in time when i was homeless itinerant.   
obedience to law and forced swallow of legal drugs   
made my mind go bland! 
once i was a little genius, twisted dreamer, poet of night streets and utmost of savage   
now i became smooth mediocrity 
i traited my ideals   
my words and deeds are no more subversive 
but, there is a chick even exist now who does love me   
and this make me somehow feel sweet   
during in my marrow i sheer despise myself   
for ceased fight   
against all those assholes pigs cops and mindcontrollers 
who executed me and profited on fatique of my bones 
killed my lyrics, explained me outlaw, kicked out my library, hackered my mailbox... 
FUCK MY LIFE!   
I AM INDEED PAIN IN ASS! 
i fear to look inside my heart   
and my brain became slick jelly...   
early, no matter how obscure was my night i didnt fear to die   
but now i am not ready even for it. 
would i die in age 37 when all world begged me do it 
it were death of a poet (even if  i was catatonic and wrote no word) 
it were death of one who choosed die rather then prove her  innocense, 
and rebel against ignoble denigrating   
who prefered die of hunger to eat all of bollocks 
rather die than dance for the pigs 2 years long weary dance macabre 
but i choosed be not unlikely as mendicant, dancing danse macabre, i choosed survive and seek another renegades... 
i still expect,   
while now i am no more renegade myself, 
i am just petty troglodyte.... 
nice to me meet you, pal... i am an douchebag   
mindless and nostalgic 
nostalgic and mindless 
        traitor   
      braggard   
& sluggard.. 
…... 
…... 
   
please, a scotch!