Misquoted Syllables

I was taught to, as a poet, be a murderer. And to kill for fun. Sweet.
But my victims always being found on the pages of my poetic lines and the blood being the ink sunken into the pages of my sheet.
Come to think of it, are books measured in leaves because each one that you turn shows how much you’ve left behind? Shows how many souls have been closed off, and how many mouths jammed shut.
Why is it a cliché  to no longer be a cliché?
Most assassins, as I’ve heard were born in November, but I was conceived in May
And birthed two years later on the anniversary of the date of my conception
The idea people have made up about me was propagated by my reflection
I don’t own a shadow on some mornings. I’ve learnt to send everybody away
The next person that would leave might be me.
I should also add I have never written a poem in my life.
All the pieces I’ve gathered and produced were jottings of a soul that once inhabited this flesh
But I sent him away as well
Well, I’ve mastered the art of spiraling out sweet nothings and conjuring up everything but spirits
Afterall, isn’t that what poetry is about? What else is in it?

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