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