Poets die young
My words are my release and soon will make me one of the deceased
Little part of my soul and heart
Little about me
A release
Helping hand to peace
Pen is a blade
Cutting mutilating my path of no control
My paragraphs is a bill from the devil to be paid
Letters sit in line like whores waiting in turn to be laid
Can bring sunshine
That one beautiful line
Verse after verse of pain over and over again
If it helps then what the hell
When this poet dies young
You can look back and read his words
Then you can say yes I knew him and I knew him well
DSL
