destructive criticism.

i guess it;'s time i turn the pen on myself,
what is to be written, what is to be said -
is like a 44. caliber placed to my head.
let's criticise the critic.

excelling in arrogance to the point of smotherance,
hiding insecurity behind big mouths and words.
an internal-clock ticking backwards,
with no knowledge nor preconceived notions of when the alarm is set.
a void that was once filled by the songs of a muse,
now drowned beneath waves of substance and inward self-infliction.
already unable to cope with a hand reaching down his throat
as he constantly forces his own deeper. he can't feel his heart yet.
who among you word-absorbers would rather take their time to dust off an old book,
when the libraries inventory lies open before the reader?
sure this has been done with the bible for years,
but this text is no where near as insightful.
who has the time to venture through fog,
when within sunlight lies a more direct path to your destination?
obsessive compulsive, more so the former.
restless, relentless; like a storm during flood.
vulgar and needy, pretentious and greedy.
for the few things he stands for,
ten thousand more he'd fall for
and for the ten thousand one he'd fall for -
near a decade figure he's will to die for
but these falls are by no means harder,
than how he has already fallen.
a bottomless pit, an attempted suicide.
twice over, processing thoughts for years,
tenfold, harvesting flowers amongst weeds.

i'm sorry my dear poet, i'm sorry my dearest friend.
you are as flawed as the damned,
you are not but a human.

address this letter to myself.