ink-stained soul,
my unceasing pen—
while breath remains
so shall my verse—
for i care not;
world unchanged, my work may be—
no reader sought, no difference made
inasmuch as to write, my heart's sole desire
i shall write of things
from quiet rooms—
from veins aflame;
purely for the feelings deep, found in words free
YOU ARE READING
secrets from the lair
Poetryan anthology of bad poetry, but who cares [the lowercase letters all throughout are intentional, they're not grammatical errors]
