For every word written, a piece of the poet dies.
The quill might as well be filled with blood,
Leaking out upon the pages
Like a hemophiliac, prose flowing with little
Regard for the health of its father. Slowly,
Drained and deep in pain, awash in fear
And certain disdain, the task is finished,
As is the author. So many artists die
By their own hand, or at an age that attests
To the evil of this sport. Why, then, do we
Do it? Because to live without words flowing
Through our veins is to have already given
Up the ghost. It sometimes hurts more to live
Than to write your own obituary.