The Lunatic Writer
Ah, how he wields his weapon
So gracefully yet strong; full of pride
Ink drips from the tip like blood
The paper, his battle field
His mind races and swirls
His thoughts pour from his wrist with a flick
Oh, how he eyes his creation
No one deserves to read such a thing
He smiles at his last and greatest piece of art
The words devour his mind
How shall he end it all?
With a lick of his lips he plays God
“You all die!” He screams with a maniac’s laugh
Yet his creations just stare at him
A mocking smile dancing on their lips
How dare his creations defy him so mockingly!
He is the Omega!
A twisted smile forms on his face
No matter…
He will just have to teach them a lesson
In his mind he watches them die
Falling to the floor like flies
Blood splattering everywhere
The sound of a door closing snaps him out of his killing spree
Slammed back into reality of a small room
Four white walls made of pillows
The jacket that hugs you
The Lunatic Writer, they call him
Driven crazy by his own words
But if you truly think about it
Aren’t all writers lunatics?
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
