Here lies a poet
who drowned himself in his own *****
Here lies an artist
who painted pictures with syllables
and couldn't keep
the ones he held dearest close to him
for fear of what MIGHT happen

Here lies a passionate priest
of words that fell on closed eyes
and ears already filled with noise
Here lies the black heart of a wordsmith
who died a penniless pauper
because he didn't do things
the way proper

Here lies the bleeding soul
of a man who could
hear lies
for miles and miles
and turn truth onto them
even if it broke his own back

Here I lie all broken hearted
I came to win big
but turned more into a wind bag
Who knows?
Maybe in my next life,
I'll take up sailing