Take this vesper and drink to glorious time,
Smolder and ride on golden chariots of fire,
Run with burgeoning seas, of child and wine,
Have your fill of flesh, plays among the stars.

You are the wind shoving me backwards,
the hands of corpses dragging me down,
the pit of fire i am bein tossed in,
the ocean of water in which i drown.
I am trying to beg you to save me,
but i am not quite sure how.
Perhaps the sad boat that i am sailing
has caused me to become shark chow.
The monsters in my head have consumed me,
and i fear that this might be the end.
Well maybe im not really fearing,
i was just hoping for more time to spend.
But my time has come, the bell has rung,
and i am finally dead.
Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but i want them to break my head.
The words you say sting like poison,
and your hands bruise but they dont heal.
Although you try your best to hold me,
i cant help but be made of steel.
The home in my chest is a forest
and i go deeper and deeper every day.
I try so hard to get lost in there
because there really is no other way.
No matter what you say i feel sorry,
because perhaps this is all my fault.
I think i just need you to love me,
but what i really need is a brand new heart.
For mine is broken and shattered,
and it is damaged beyond repair.
And maybe if i destroy all my flesh
i'll **** all of the monsters in there.
Now all of the bugs are crawling,
i feel them all on my skin,
i bang on the door on the home in my chest
and i beg to be let back in.
Because i know that the bug are not real,
its just the demons who haunt me at night.
They like to play tricks and make me get sick
because they know im not feeling alright.
Oh God why did you do this?
Please tell what i have done,
im sorry if i have deserved this
but life is no longer fun.
Please tell my family im sorry,
tell my girl ive loved her for years.
Tell her i said thank you for everything,
tell her not to shed any tears.
Im finally done and over with,
this poem is the last thing i'll write.
The monsters in my head have taken over me
and they will all win tonight.
Im sorry for all that ive done,
im sorry for all that i couldnt do.
But i will finally be happy now,
and you all should be too.

i am not a poet.
poets are the sad ones awake at three a.m. mourning over the sad loss of their lover.
poets are the ones yearning to love, and to be loved the same.
poets are beautiful, dangerous and tragic. every word that they speak is a dagger in your side, the slow knife that cuts the deepest.
poets are the ones who realise the power of words, so they choose them carefully (they know they could be choosing their fate).
poets know that the absence of words is just as important as the presence.
poets are born, not crafted.
maybe i am a poet.