The day a poet didn’t die-I: The melodramatic poet
A night in fragments—
Breath reeked mildewed regrets,
and static collided behind my eyes.
I tasted shattered neon,
sipping cheap club gin.
Even alcohol can’t silence the poet—
I mock her perfumed clichés,
but still draft her eulogy
in thrifted elegance.
“I hate writing blind,” I muttered
as gin bled through crooked verses—
March 14th,
a drunk poet sighed—
Her pen staged the week’s second tragedy.
At least yesterday’s wasn’t on paper.
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