I can't hardly think anymore...
Without pulling bits and pieces of my life
Out of sequence, then
Threading them together to make a poem
Any thought or idea that rushes to my head,
[blood swirls in my brain]
Pours out viciously in stanzas
[drip drip drip]
With staining rhyme...
It's thoughts like these that give me headaches,
Just like the one I have now...
Being a poet....inevitably will kill me....
~BUT~
I would rather die with pen in hand, my tragedy in script, than to die with my secret rotting on my tongue.
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