The pen is mightier than the sword, they say
But what would happen if I were to die today?
Would my blood run red like a raging fire?
Or would the words of my soul stain it black with ire?

Would my thoughts run free in a great stampede?
Or like a tide, would they just recede?
The inner spark would cease to live
I killed my imagination with Apathy’s shiv.

I abandoned my creativity and left it to die
That feeling of guilt will never reside.
The fragments of what could’ve been
Now lay before me as my greatest sin.

I look in the mirror and what do I see?
A betrayer of individuality staring back at me
His insults cut deeper than any normal wound
And ink slowly seeps out onto the ground.

Perhaps I am already dead
No longer do I paint with lead
The hollow shell of what I once was
Lay cracked and decrepit while Satan applauds

I am but a shadow of my former self
My passion stored away on a dusty shelf
My system shuts down and I try to forget
That I'm no longer the writer I was once, but merely a silhouette.