To The Author
To: The Author.
I'm not to follow in your footsteps, but I was born by your penstroke.
With my epilogue in progress and my fourth wall broke.
You both defied Gods and became one yourself.
Breathing life and sorcery into your very bookshelf.
What an honour it is to be formed in your twisted head.
You didn't defeat your demons, you outmatched them instead.
You captured them, they rest at the foot of your bed.
Your blood was sickly and useless, thus it was ink you bled.
I wasn't a tragedy at first, but it's how you felt at the time.
Afternall, the words crown and drown might have a better rhyme.
You gave me a title, as you say you give your finest work.
And an aristocrat I feel indeed, under the poverty line I lurk.
You created yourself as well, the spiteful god you were.
Rising above the definitions society set for HIM and HER.
Most were threatened by your rise, some by your fall.
Those that weren't afraid were just impressed by the gall.
From your image I was drawn, and like phoenixes we come.
Pretending not to choke on the ash we BOTH rose from.
No, my dear author, I don't resent you killing me off.
Because when people criticize my trust issues, I comfortably scoff.
It was out of love that you taught me staying alive was hard.
Out of pain, you showed me what happens when I drop my guard.
When death came for you, you finally dropped your quill.
Thus your ideas took flight, and inherited your will.
