Poetic end

Please do not kill my poems.

Kill me - put a dagger in my heart, and I shall die in peace.

When you mutilate my words, you're smothering me.

You shall never edit the piece that is already perfect.

It was a work of magic, and I shan't imagine creating that perfect work again.

If I found myself alive even after my thoughts went dry, I would announce myself dead.

Water and food can wait, while I'm feeding my soul with words that ring true and run deep.

Make a deep cut into my skin, you shall see blood oozing out.

And, make a deep cut into my words, you shall see blood oozing out.

My dissected body will be a sight of repugnance,

not my dissected work that shall evoke wonderment and intrigue great minds, forever.

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