“Poets”
I am glad that I am not one of those
Bleeding-heart poets that pours his soul
Into the void
I am glad that I am not a pen
Laying tears on the parchment
Staining it forever
How cool that I am not paper
Seared with ink
Only to be forgotten
As new wounds take to the heart
I am a stone, cold and uncaring
I am a drop of water in the desert
I am a ray of moonlight
I am an insane man in an imperfect world
I am a lone howl
Unheard
In the dark summer night
My head is a writhing storm
Changing with the seasons
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