Don't you love it?

I tell myself  that poetry is dead inside,

Violent and filled with poachers and vultures.

And I ask myself when I am I gonna decide to quit. 

Am I really just let these words keep flowing, 

Because its the only way I can release these dark feelings,

And I fear this is actually the time it changes,

I don't want to go,

Never want to go,

Even though every thought inside of my brain,

Scream that this cant work out.