I Write Poetry

Painful sick emotions,
Like a virus to a host,
They've taken over his soul,
Leaving him nothing but a ghost,

There is poetry still inside him,
Is it garbage or is it gold,
So many words still left unspoken,
Are they meek or are they bold,

He's spitting up attempts,
Along with bits of blood and bone,
He is the ruler of his own hell,
Chained forever to his throne,

The last remnants of his heart,
Sit high atop a shelf,
Kept safe from it's breaker,
The monster that dwells inside himself,

Chained and locked behind bars,
Its pieces just beyond his clutch,
Doomed to for'n'ever again hold his heart,
Cursed to see but never touch.