The poetry people have a
                 body that's tarred.     
             Their scars do not heal,
                 Nor do they bleed.
    They're filled with ink and misery,
          And the syllables they need.

          
      They don't have a favorite flower,
             They romanticize thorns,
        They don't romanticize a lover,
          They talk to their own selves.
    The poetry people do not bear hair,
                     They bear horns.

 The poetry people are not the society,
                  Or the population.
          They're glad to be mortals,
      And they despise confrontation.
      They don't have a complete body,
             Their bones are tangled.
            They have a missing belly,  
       They don't even have ideas to be
                            humbled.
              They don't wear clothes,    
           They cover themselves with
                          parchments.
              With ink stained papers,
          And occasional torn garments.
             Their eyes are fermented
                with tears and the sun,  
               Their nails are crooked,
                       Their lips burn.

                       They pass away,
                       Choking on ink.                    
                         A smiley face
               and cheeks that are pink,
             Love has finally found them.
        But death caught them in a blink.