Dead poet

she wrote of love, of hatred

of joy, of anguish

she wielded words that forever

hearts tarnished.

she wrote of love, of hatred

of joy, of anguish

she willed the words and cast her stony face

into the mask she wears until this very day.

she wrote of poems that make people
come alive

but no one ever knows that

the flower of death flourished inside.

her heart, scattered as it may seem

floated into the chaotic endless stream

her pen, her heart once drawn in her sleeve

has finally come to peace, bidding goodbye.

for she graced the word with poems

such words of beauty, sorrow, and madness

life has made her an empty piece of a shell

but her words will continue on forever.

Another round of melancholic poetry for such a festive mood hahaha I dunno about myself either. I was crying as I wrote this because some words reflected me – I’m alive outside, but dead inside long ago.

I won’t divulge into the details, but I really wanted to have some time for myself; just saying. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this entry. Despite my melancholia, I hope you guys have a wonderful and bountiful year ahead. *smiles*

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