Death of a Writer

They’re not afraid,
They’re not afraid–
Used to be, but
They’re not afraid !

Standing erect,
    draped in print chains
With bloodlust eyes,
    can see through feign. 

I think I'm done,
    contrast my life;
I'm going to
    a place of strife. 

The lusted and
    hollow agony;
Burn me in the
    old willow tree. 

When I see my
    body secure:
Kill them all, please !
    The publishers !

What do you think? Criticisms and praise welcome.

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