Poetry is dead,
there's no rhyme or rhythm that could exist to express the emotions or twist tales and tails of the monster of fortune and fate.
Where is my heavy heart?

Poetry is dead,
there are no heavy hearts, only troubled minds and aching bodies.
Why is it called a heavy heart when my head weighs a ton, the pain pulling my eyes to the ground and slowing my steps?

Poetry is dead,
a bullet to its head, a rope to its neck, and a poison on its tongue when it was forced to swallow the truth. Is the heavy heart meant for the victim of my decisions or am I too inhuman to feel the echos bounce against my chest of chains and iron ice?

Poetry is dead,
and i have killed it with the same blow that struck the ones who sang praises in my name, who worshiped something I cannot be. Not didn't, not won't, not wasn't. Can't.

Poetry is dead, because I ran over the hearts of writers of love and lust and everything I ran from on that day when my heavy head hung low to stop me from seeing them in my escape to "freedom".

To all the heavy-hearted,
Poetry is dead,
And I'm sorry.