Words like Sanskrit curses,
Verses to burn the paper,
As their eyes burning the midnight oil.
Darkness sculpted into poetry.
Of broken dreams and living nightmares.
Poems for the rebels and skeptics.
Poems that say everything about a life that means nothing.
Verses that undress reality and seduce fiction.
Power from the inside of an empty soul.
That's why they'll kill my footsteps but live in the horror of my echoes through the hall of fame.
That's why
Am not those poets who make selling headlines of poetry journals.
Am those poets with a dark corner in a bright magazine,
Or with quotes written on walls with scraping paint in bars or asylums.
Am those poets whose poems live in cracks of broken souls and the shatter of broken dreams.
My poems will substitute Bible verses on heretic tombstones.
History will keep me as a secret, But mad men will still whisper my name.
They won't quote me in literature lessons,
But the rogue students will scribble my name onto the bathroom doors.
No monuments for me,
But the graffiti on the streets will live on.
I might never be in libraries ,
But a broken teenager will stumble upon me as they search for a way to escape reality.
I'll be next to the blue pills or whatever colour suicide will come in then.
And then,
I shall live again.
There!
Ofcourse there's an afterlife for me.
Elliepoet
