The world only loves my words when they're pleading.
The world only loves a poet that is bleeding
passionately writing with crimson spattered abandon.
Adoration is showered upon the poet that is falling
deeper sinking into sorrows and self induced agony.
I'm just a writer that has fallen
and though my wings are quite frail I'm still crawling
to try and reach a better place, a better state again.
I'd rather let the ink do the bleeding and find a friend.
To put a breeze under my feathers
and make me smile and laugh again.
Than subject myself to memory laced emotional tortures
for the sake of art and to draw an audience.