Burning Alive
In twilight I write,
guided by my blight,
of heart's pyromaniac light.
Howling, I cry.
I burn alive.
Thoughts torment and rage.
I wasn't told,
a poet is engaged.
To be enslaved.
Soul clawing.
Scratching into page.
To gouge on dead trees,
lines that are scars.
Wounds that tear me
down to my knees.
I'm screaming inside.
Listen to me!
I give you truth.
Relinquish sanity.
To the purposed one.
When you read
I want you to see,
the dark poet,
writes dangerously.
In order to be free.
So, that when I go.
When I've kindled to ash.
You use matchstick pencils
to flash your inward cache.
-Angel Fatale-
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