The God of the Pen
I made them unlikable. I cursed them for measure.
But they were only cheap, expendable characters.
They lived inside houses beneath the skies of my mind.
They drove my reality, each with their own lives.
I made them unkillable. I chose when they escaped.
I recorded their lives in novels and plotted their fates.
They were my babies that had lessons to learn.
Some passions were lost and some passions still burned.
I was the God of the pen. The scriber of the rules.
But I had limited power. I too was just a tool.
I lived in an external world ran by ghosts.
I may have walked as a giant, but I was still their vacant host.
The spirits here knew how to enter and get somebody down.
Some lifestyle weren't appropriate for their small town.
So I picked up my pen and returned to my fictitious friends.
I would watch their lives unfold, waiting for mine to mend.
Until that one night when the clock struck eight ‘o six.
That’s when I came to the conclusion that mine wouldn't fix.
I picked up the cold handle of daddy’s colt forty-five.
As the bullet entered my brain, I heard them all die.
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