I am not a poet nor a mathematician, I did not major in science,
I majored in bad decisions, at least one I can call my own.

I am a misfit; I bleed words for a living,
we're all going to die my friends, I plan to die alone.

I am an artist through and through,
from each creative incision my hate for them consumes.
I have grown more lethal; I have become incurable,
I am a hideous villain this time I'm keeping score.

I pity the weak have you not heard of me,
if you have then you're a nobody too.
Cause I love to dwell with misfits, those who feel what I feel,
the glass is not half empty, the glass is definitely full.
It’s filled with poison for us to consume,
so, we embrace our world until our lives are doomed,
to the point, we can ****, to the point we feel terribly ill,
but before they **** us, we point our pen and spill.

And yet with blood I cry as the words keep on giving,
every single worthless day until the story ending.
Dear, world have you heard of me? I am the next great villain,
this is just the beginning as my words keep spilling.

One morning the rain fell over my head then time stood still,
that is when I realized how important the rain is.
That is when I realized time never stands still, it moves slowly.
Then it hit me, my words aren't ignored my words are lethal,
I figured it out some time ago but most of you have no clue,
a poetic death is wonderful as long as we set the mood.

I am a misfit; I bleed words for a living,
from each creative incision, you become a misfit too.