Is it true? Does the poet died over his typewriter?
Was his poem any good? Good enough for me to steal it and make a living out of it?
Oh, look at this! No widow, no lover, family or children. This an opportunity right?
I mean, he is dead, he doesn’t need a poem! And I do! More now than ever
You see, I was good with words, but then, I caught something, something in the rain
I call it the melancholic blue! It’s when the sky cries on your behalf because one has dryed out of tears…
So, he is dead! Like stone cold! That’s odd! He was so happy before
Well, I guess he was extra happy, you should be for having a toast with mercury and a bite of cyanide
Fuck! I can’t use this! The words that he wrote with blood were erased by his tears
Damned poets, even in death they give me headaches!
Ok! Don’t panic, I’ll wait until the next one dies so I can steal his fame and his name, his soul and his rhymes and enjoy better times like i did back then.