invisible ink

ghost writing, a skill, a talent, derived by a mandate from the masses
they told me that when i was trying to teach their classes
so i sat back with my invisible ink pen just so i could cleanse
my paper by soaking it in words that nobody read
signing a name that was already dead
it was so easy to do, i just pumped it full of lead
i was talking into jugs and distributing the dust
each day i watch the people walk right on by at dusk
not looking either way, not giving a simple oat
just eating things that tell them they'll be stuck in their won'ts
so i sit on this corner talking vigorously about the do's and don'ts
but the porch died within the underdog
another failure to rest upon the overture
the musical instruments pumping into a new brand of pure
to be bottled and distributed as divinity, something i just can't see
as I'm watching the invisible words dripping off my soaked bleached white sheet
paper stains land on my tongue while they drift to deaf ears and blind eyes
this was the coming of the skies, i knew it, i had clairvoyance in my hair ties
it was all lies they said, until they built it up and it fell dead
watching, breathing, my contemporary art is screaming
HERCULES! DEAF HERCULES AND HIS REVOLVER!
it struggles, crawls and makes attempts that are lost in snarls
everybody watches as it simply hovers in its own self pity for moments of time
the movements were mandatory as it inhaled the slime
and now it sits
on broken logs of hallowed incandescence
it shines with a dull and unpolished brilliance
so it sits back, begging for penance while receiving no signs
this fool hearted pursuit sits on the floor content, absolutely benign
but nobody saw it, the growth it produced
the hate it concealed while it induced in the fears it removes
delivery was so absent
that nobody told a single feeling they wish they felt
because humanity is running from that scene
gasping on the ground, hiding all the misery
clawing at the wooden floor digging a hole while it screams
HERCULES! DEAF HERCULES AND HIS REVOLVER!
i just hope to god, while I'm on this wooden floor looking out the gaping windows
maybe i don't hope to god, but i hope, that this spirit won't have a black widow
and have something that tells of the dowry between pen and memory
false though it might be, this thing, in front of me, is wise as the sea
god of gods, but nobody seems to be listening
good, its a ghostwriter, a ghostly ghost
so go on with his business, keep your nose out of it
invisible ink is hard to see if you don't believe in its existing
so take back the words that i was missing
lucrative in the feelings it produces in the back of your minds
an audience of nobody sits back and claps with its giant one hand
i swear ghosts exists because i saw the pen throwing a fit
when i wrote the words that couldn't describe movements of lips
jaw flapping with ink pen diving, driving until i fall into the line
the no passing line that stretches into eternity
where roads end in the craters of calamity
giving off nothing but a feeling invisibility
so the writhing ghost hides from the feeling of insanity
little did it know when it wasn't screaming it was eating
the addiction it was trying to break free
insanity
lingering
in its bony fingertips forced into wood shavings
so i step back, and light a match
holding its irresistible warmth makes me taste its wrath
heart beats pound ear drums that drown out all other sound
as i set fire to the book of scribbled notes
pages blowing in the wind, attempting to float
and that was the end of Hercules
and that was the end of the sea breeze.

~Love letters, they all are, love letters.

Love,
Digress