Once, yes;
Twice, perhaps;
But thrice? Oh no, not more.

My friends, my beacon of light,
Without them I would not have survived the night
They grant me the will to continue to fight;
And yet,

The mountain of critics grow ever higher,
While I'm slowly sinking into sorrow's mire.
The only solution may be in the pyre
Or silent,

Silent I'll be, and talk no more,
No place for me, I'll lock up my door,
You'll not hear from me, I hope you're happy you tore
What meant,

What meant for me the joy despite grief,
What enabled me self-expression and belief...
In what, I can't say, and that best expresses in a poet the
hurt.

You came on like predators, cut like a scythe,
Shattered my hopes that I now know as myth.
I truly hope you are satisfied, for I'm wary of you now;
I'm wary of my readers, to where have I come?