We weren’t the ones who wanted to write poetry
The romantically dreadful title was branded on us
You can tell by what we call ourselves
Choosing to sound deep over obnoxious,
And failing every goddamn time
Constantly performing the same spell, Where we turn blood and tears into ink
Cursing any and ever sympathetic heart,
To empathize with our narcissism
Disguised as saints from Hell,
But never devils from Paradise
so much truth in this