Dead of Night

Flee into slices 

My scream, an isolation of hate. 

I redeem each mark as a scar re-clawing old gashes through stitches of living. 

I am war. 

My mouth, untamed. 

I am Ghost. 

A bastard who scries a banner of chaos

Inking art into artillery. 

Demonizing literacy as a loaded weapon. 

Firing with every punch. 

A summoner of dead letters–in the dead of night, 

These words of shrapnel ricochet inside shapes of squared minds. 

A peppered hole riddled as a scatter-shot of open thought. 

I'd blow my brains out with a pen, just to share my thoughts with the world.