In the fires of hell, the darkness beats me more than flame,
When burns never held such meaning, the light was my saving,
Before me the great wyvern, behind a great dragon,
Both sleeping in miscontented dreams, eternal nightmares...

Admitting is the hardest part,
So I'm left spitting words onto paper,
Abusing vocabulary,
Intending to impress,
I'm nothing more than a bitter soul,
No poet, no literate, no beginning.
But a definite end.
These words are not poetry,
Let's reserve that word for the great ones.
These words are just a disappointment,
To everyone and everything I should have been,
If you read this then screw it up and throw it away,
It is a pitiful admittance of a coward,
Of a disappointment in himself.
No poet.
Just words.