The Dead Poet

Out of his tapping fingertips, came all the words he had to type.

Those words that laid within his mind, through all his sleepless nights.

The fanning flames of starkness, of his reality of spite.

From Inside that mind so twisted, came the words of such delights.

They were words to entertain you, and thoughts that made you smile.

That poet kept on dying inside of his mind's ever rhyming turnstile.

His soul was slowly sinking down, as his words kept lifting up,

and all the love that drownd his heart, were words your mind could touch.

From within his paranoia,and through all his lows and highs,

he ripped apart the truth he saw, and tore from you those sighs.

The accused and persecuted man. A keyboard at his hands.

The world in view of his eyes, was one he could not stand.

And in all his inspirations found, were the wisdom's of his muse.

Those subtle little focal points, that his words would sometimes use.

Yet, still he'd find some beauty. Yes, still he'd make you grin.

Spinning all his simple words, from out of his life so filled with sins.

Yes, you may have thought him cheerful, Oh, that petty tortured soul,

who wallowed in his own remorse, for things he could not control.

Shame was his foundation, and regret his only tool,

that he used to slay himself. The worded dreamings of a fool.

Living such a vaunted nightmare, of a such a wasted lifetime,

he sat there in his rhyming, through all that sleepless nightime.

His love he felt so strongly, yet he knew it was just his curse.

He gave it to another one, and it was another hemlocked verse.

And so he sat there at his typing, just slicing up his heart.

Falling. Crawling. Rambling on. Waiting for his end to start.

He knew the world just loved him. Even as it struck him down.

He knew of all the things he'd seen. He called himself a clown.

He'd figured out his destiny, was one of pure example.

And all the words that he typed, said life was made to sample.

All he ever wanted, was to be loved for what he'd been.

And though he wasn't always great, he made a real good friend.

He knew that he was doomed to die, so unhappy and alone.

Filled with tears he could not cry, and a last unwritten poem.

TheHiker TheHiker
41-45, M
Jun 17, 2012