We are often thought of,
As dark mischief makers,
But we feel most free,
When the pen hits the paper
It’s here we are untouched,
Undisturbed and unbroken,
Its here we dispel life’s crutch,
And our spirit’s softly spoken,
The silence in which we sit,
Speaks volumes to the world,
Our words might strike you sick,
Or bring you closer to a girl,
In the stillness of the shadows,
Is where we keep our thoughts,
After a visit to the gallows,
A weak mind is sure to rot,
But we have mastered death,
And seen love come and go,
Within a poet’s breathe,
Your fate we will bestow,
So we’ll take your life in hand,
With just a flick of the wrist,
Erasing at our command,
And your soul, it never did exist.

 
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