Poets.

"Peace upon the wings of butterfiles,
Sweet serenity awaits the sufferers.
Afterlife Lullabies soothe the weak,
Brings strength to the fooled and pathetic."
He's too weary though.
To believe these lies,
Subconsiously shoveled in.
Too old, Too battered.
He's different now,
He lacks compassion,
But wields knowledge,
He dropped Faith,
Then discovered Apathy.
Left behind,
He plays in iniquity,
Delves into self-hate,
Only to find peace,
is not as true as it seems.
Ridiculed and Beaten,
Failed Reprint,
Abused and stomped upon.
Jaw broken,
the poet continues.
Blood pours as easily as lies.
He is lost now.
He knows it.
Tastes it.
Through the crimson,
It tastes of shame.
His own path is obscured.
Identity ripped by self.
Safety in obscurity.
Alone on the path,
Red traces him back.
Bends his ribs,
Compresses his spine,
until his swollen heart,
bursts and drops the beat.