The Dead Poet

Dreamers are dreaming
And dreamers are dead,
Dying with a handful of words
They are never going to say,
Thinking how sad it must have been
To find a poet gone,
A red-ink pen stabbed right into his heart,
A lonesome suicide—
An absurd-looking man,
Eyes forced open,
Viewing his soon to come death.
A traumatic event: he gave up his voice for a better future or a better life,
What difference does it make right now?
Silver linings scattered on the floor,
A single tear mourning everything he's lost.
He was trapped inside his head,
Deciding whether poetry made enough sense,

Guess the answer came across a glimpse,

A buried impulse, a lack of inspiration.

The desperation of an artist that became too much to bear,

A poet without words is only flesh and bones,

useless and a burden to himself.

Now he lays connected to the earth
While a few stray cats start licking his palms,
Tasting the metallic blood spilled across the dirt,
Engraved on his wooden tomb
there’s his name, handwritten in black:
"The unhappiest poet this town has ever seen."