The Death Of Poetry

This is my last poem
I will never again use words
to express myself
You should be relieved
You always hated the way my mind thought
in metaphors and analogies

my pen spewing words
and making paper come alive
my heart and soul
defined between the lines

start a bombfire
with my notebooks
making sure no stray sheet
of paper escapes
I will go after them with the same determination
as the dustbunnies beneath my bed
i have always been scared
they`ll eat me in my sleep
with their bushy tails and big teeth

no more cutting myself
to watch ink pour from my veins
or trying to think of something that doesnt sound cliche
Dont worry dear
I will find a way to extract
this pen from my hand
but i`ll still feel it there like
an amputated limb

curling my fingers around it
everytime i catch a phrase
if its the last thing i do
i will no longer write
it problably will be
because without poetry i`ll Die