I  sold my freedom to poetry
and never looked back.
let ink carve oaths,
oaths of lament, agony, affliction.

Every  relationship a writing prompt,
each goodbye an unfinished draft.
half-written verses crimsoned the margins,
monsters growling between the lines.

I revive old wounds for epiphany,
reshape anguish until it rhymes.
Every trauma, a metaphor
a sonnet dressed in ruin,
a haiku carved from ache.

And when the page is filled,
when the ink dries,
who remains—me, or the dead poet??