A Poet’s Disease

I sat with much contentment,
for I am happiest when I write.

All my might
goes into the night,
with every word,
I began to write.

My shadow play’s
as my poet craves,
my word’s are engraved
upon the writer’s block.

Soon word’s will play as I write the plot.

The poet I am,
the dreadful lot,
dried up my thoughts.

Nevermore will I deplore
such illusion upon your life,
instead I will cut like a knife
into your mind,
there I will set forever allure,
nothing but shallow word’s,
yet still my poetic heart fell
into a poet’s disease,
with such passion I do adore.

I fell to my knees,
as poetry devoured me.