I used to pen down the unimaginable
Pieces that left many perplexed
In awe of where I subscribed to

I used to ink down the immense
Art that left them confused and tensed
Making them wonder how I commenced

I used to sketch incredible works
Well laid structures of plans
That built my monument so large

Then they said am not one
A writer, a poet nor a creative
With their words, they split my soul

I soaked my parchment in poison
And drove my quill to my heart
And died slowly as I chewed my pain

I listened to the critics
The very who killed my art
And wrote my bad script

I used to be a writer
And I died a loser
For listening to greater losers