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All Poets Must Die

All poets must die a little each day
Words like blood flowing sometimes spewing forth
Staining blank pages with sorrowful news
Love and filth combine with a broken heart
and tears
And then I die a little more today

My life poured on this gruesome page again
Talentless vultures wait to pick my bones
Watching with rheumy eye and dripping beaks
Hope and time mix with long forgotten dreams
and fears
And then I die a little more today

All poets must die a little each time
Pen scars the paper scrawling wordy words
Read by no one but the hate scavengers
Dust and sun stirred with cluttered desk papers
and years
And then I die a little more today

© 2009 Helen Bascom
All Rights Reserved