Who will miss the fallen poet?

 

Every time I have

to paint that smile

on my face 

I die a little more inside.

I wear it wide,

toothy and big,

but inside

I grab a shovel and dig.

6 foot deep to bury me

in the loneliest hole of all,

this grave I dig myself

when I slowly start to fall.

 

For who will miss the fallen poet?

 

A soldier of words,

born again to reunite

sentences that were

lost to times deepest tides.

But who sees the look

behind those eyes?

The tired ones with

dim flickering light

that is slowly

fading out over time.

 

Who will miss the fallen poet

when the night calls out

and snuffs out the fire inside?

 

These questions

once scared me,

these thoughts

would blare

so loud at night,

so loud

I’d lay and slowly

die inside,

But now I see the love

that holds me tight,

the ones

that will care

The ones

that reignite the light

when the day

is darkest and to them 

I hand my heart.

And every time I paint this smile

on my face, I live a little more,

because this smile is true,

this smile is pure.

 

For the fallen poet

will always rise.