Poetry and I Are On a First Name Basis

Poetry knows my name, haunting me throughout the silence of the night, Culling me into a false sense of warmth and security, Here, take this poisoned quill, it whispers, Fill the ink bottle with your tears and blood, Scribble all that pain upon this leathered parchment, Every letter reverberating from my frayed nerves. Bloodshot eyes from countless sleepless days, With each exhalation, I can feel the life slowly begin to leave my weary body. Record the past traumas one last time, Write, erase, rewrite, until I get every meticulous detail right. Don’t want to suffer these injustices for an eternity, Purge the bitter acid from the pit of my stomach, Cleanse the narcissistic abuse from my waking nightmares, Feverishly fill saline soaked book after book, Until the final microscopic breath leaves this shaking body, Place the quill between ground down teeth, bite down and swallow the poison, Concluding the closing chapter of this misguided, maddening existence.