Trap in an isolated era.
View me as faceless persona
Of make-belief identities
In this world filled with fantasies.

I write because I am tired,
To pen the burden in this poet’s ride.



*© Pax

Paper, Pencils, and Pens
tools of my murders,
A nice ball point is my preference,
Bloodbaths in notebooks,
Body outlines in black ink,
Homicidal verses roll off the tongue,
Cuff my wrists,
I can't bare to witness anymore,
all the tombstones at the end of these sentences,
Grave digging across the pages,
Nobody said poetry was pretty.