Im about to commit poetic suicide
Im gonna drive into a lake of words and die a creative death
The asphyxiation of liquid paraphrases entices me
Swamped by grammatical sea creatures;
I create a piece….
Under water….
I can’t breath….
I can’t see but I wrote a piece
The struggle resembles the erratic motion of a pen on paper; arms
whaling against the resistance of the swamp
The struggles calms
My piece is complete
My creative lungs robbed of its oxygen supply; now filled with literature
My energy weakens and my body tires
The battle has ended…
Words have killed me.
