If I were a writer
I’d actively seek
A mild patina
A mad mystique
I’d write about death
As something good
I’d sign my name
Edgar Allen Atwood

If I were a writer
There’d be Tom and Huck
A great big world
That didn’t give a ****
Bout the little guy
Floating down the main
And I’d call myself
Charley Dickens Twain

If I was a writer
I’d have a golden plume
I’d write about
That day of doom
I’d write about
Laughing at fear
And I’d call myself
Mordecai Shakespeare

If I was a writer
And I had a page
I’d write about
The good old days
‘Bout what I’d ‘ve done
On a day with you
And I’d sign my name
And I’d sign yours too

I write as my past self
most of the time, with small
intrusions from my present
I can't decide if its dishonest
to be a poet in the mind of
a depressed mess when I am
far beyond that point
I just don't have anything
to write about anymore...
But somehow I'm okay with that
Because nothing terrifies me more
than having a new tragic story
to share with you

They said its all downhill from here
But I feel myself rising
Raising out of my own pretensions
Ascending towards meaninglessness
And reaching peaks of insanity