He’s a ghostwriter
A lost spirit’s scribbler
Etching emotions
Revealing his demons
In all possible ways
While counting his days
To leave this frail host
As his mind’s effin’ toast
And each breathe’s a cost
Without waiting for another dawn
In any split second, he’ll be gone
Drifting in a reverie that’s lost
With the residual feelings frost
Last words arranged, left in a note
With love, seeking no pitiful thought
“Hi, I’m a wordsmith who just wished
For my bleeding words to be missed.”
We all are aberrant from the ways of this world in one way or another | Sub-Editor at Smartprix.com
