Writer's Block

I paint a thousand pictures here

on the inside of my skull

Sometimes I'll crack it open

though my instruments are dull

I focus in, then out of view

when the blows land on my chin

A wild river's seeping slowly

through the cracks in my skin

I've got a hunger for sweet admiration

but can't exchange it for my occupation

as the

fallen cleric

chief of sinners

poor of spirit

Take all the mud and glory in

the blood that swells my hand

shake it out with delirium tremors

and guide my palsy pen

Who's impressed enough to follow me?

Please consider now the source

Count my golden vanities

in the fire of remorse

I've made an art of clever demonstrations

but can't exchange it for my occupation

as the

fallen cleric

chief of sinners

poor of spirit

I paint a thousand pictures here

on the inside of my skull

Come on, crack it open, kill me

burn the bridges, break the walls

I've got a hunger for sweet validation

but can't exchange it for my old vocation

as the

fallen cleric

chief of sinners

poor of spirit