WORDS

These words written of a dying poet, I'm sick
and no it. My words of love and hate spoken,
poor hearts broken. The words in my head
are like dark demons of insanity, some nice
and others full of profanity.

I look back on my life, wonder why I couldn't
keep a wife. Maybe filled with to much pried,
little or none tears cried. My plea is to some
day write a beautiful book, making everyone
take a second look.

I write so many words of being forsaken, to
many lifes being taken. I want to try and write
of happiness and hope, less killing and dope.
I wonder who will meet me when I die, hope
its not satan I cry. There might not be a answer,
for my life taking cancer.

I may not survive, but will spit words while I'm
still alive. I'm a dying poet and when I take my
last breath, I might die but my words will stay
for eternity after death.