I Lost...

You exchanged pens for weapons
deranged writers trying to teach lessons
but your souls cry out in torment
for all the time you could have spent
trying to vent out your rage on pages
and exchange your pain for poetry's sake.

Your pens weep for you…

lying on the floor where you cast it
only to pick up metallic ignorance
with the intention to fill caskets.
Instead of blood, ink, and tears to fill pages…
you foolishly filled the hearts of poets with your hatred…
and I'm only sorry that the beauty of your ink is now faded…
Tarnished and tainted by your egoic disposition
that kept you looking at other poets as competition

and yes… your pens weep for you… bleed for you… and yes they need you too…

but in your state where anger feeds you…
the beauty of poetry will never speak to you…

Your ink will be nothing more than black marks on blank pages
like the scars you placed on the hearts
of the fellow poets you forced apart
when you threw down your pens
each of you feeding off the need to win
needing to be so much "bigger" than HIM…

Fuck it all of you win…
I'll be the loser that started all over again…
if that’s what it takes for you to pick up your pens
recognize the beauty of your own words and be friends.

Fuck it I lost…
I'd never scribe if this was the cost…

if retribution became a form of restitution
I'd label my pen as 'Hate Pollution'
my rhymes becoming prostitution
an abhorrent attack on our constitution…

I'd label my ink as 'retired'
if that's what would be required
for my pen to no longer call me a liar
to open my eyes to the hate I inspired…

I would do this…
If that was all that's required.