Poet
But what about those poets who died screaming in pages?
A cycle that never ends
A ripped out detailed notes
Something like secrecy
Hidden in my dignity
Out of paper, overflowing ink
So I pierced a needle in
Invisible, tattooed on my skin
Every letter stabs like a tiny pin
Too shallow but too many aches scattered still
Pierced sweetly through my soul
But every little thing aches the biggest hole
Been writing like a mad poet since
Never been really understood all my poem since
So if I am to die like this I hope they read my blood sweat and tears
