Poetic Toxins

I write what I know, and know what I write. I travel through time, every rhyme with might. Ruminating the past; its wrongs and its rights. Any time of the day, and any darkness of night. I pen history and its future, as small as it seems, Inking a mission, my pen shadows my dreams. I engrave bits of pain, through every extreme. Inscribing a passion, my script and its regime. My pen is much mightier, than an army indeed, it slashes its victims with a whimsical need. It destroys its targets, planting a poetic seed. It preys on cruelty, and the abusive it feeds. Feeding a toxic dose, of words and rhymes, serving a deadly concoction of ink in time. For the tongue is more lethal in words of rhyme, the triumphant work of a poet; yours and mine.