At a late hour he sips his fill
Of acid thoughts, and dips his quill
In the ink of vengeance tainted with hate
And transfers to parchment his crude debate.
Anathema builds inside him,
Ferocious hate of broken dreams,
Tied in chains of understatement,
Haunted; sick, his inside screams.
They need to be picked; his broken pieces,
From their fall on the mocking ground.
Challenged by deceits of his kind,
Raging; with madness, he is found.
Fearless, he lashes with swordlike words,
Through pages of critique he tears,
Furious! Lazarus storms and mocks,
Against all apprehensions he roars.
As his quill digs in,
His parchment bleeds,
Many people, many words,
He pays no heed.
"Ah! What so, if I live like an outcaste?!
I look forward to the last laugh!"