In the abyss of the soul, poetry tortures itself,
Ridiculous it exposes, in the enduring pains.
Naked and raw, it springs from the invisible fear,
Bleeding words in a dreadful world so near.
I'm the drunken one of letters, intoxicated by pain,
Pouring forth endless rivers, shamelessly in vain.
A poetess adrift, in desperate verse's plight,
In relentless pursuit of shattered dreams' light.
Who are these poets, who surrender in the lines?
Their immortal souls, in literature, entwine.
Not I, just an echo, in the madness of verse,
In the society of poets, where dark chants immerse.