Im properly portraying my imperfections and my impaired nature, My position is perceived among those with impure imperatives, a danger,
Yet im impersonalized, perishable, impelled to impale my scripture, For what i write is who i am, a stranger to those out of the picture,
Im nothing to no one now but maybe in the future, ill be heard, Infinitely chained with barbed wire cuffs, ill forever write my words,
As my blood splashes onto page, my chapter enters its finale, My pen will drive through the red drops, creating its own valley
My end, here lies the last lines, "Hopefully these thoughts echo across time," "Poets prefer to perish, the identity of a poet is now mine."