A recurring dream tortured my mind,
Standing by a momentary library,
Where poems I hated to write
Were preserved for eternities, stained
By my narrowing vision,
I read them and wept.
I was a quill the next day,
I floated around in a master's hands,
Obedient and flawless, I scribbled words
That remained meaningless for all,
And the dream brought me closer
Soothed and tortured, I became a
Poet again, I flew the streets
Stained with blood and hate,
Where sweat spewed mercilessly
On paths where imagination
Once passed with royalty.
I am the quill again, with a subdued
Hue of fetid ink, I write my own
Destiny. I stop me from loving,
I scribble that I were an introvert,
I write that I shall forsake happiness,
That I shall forever be a poet.