A Writer's Death

I died a writer's death,

a pen protruding from my chest.

Blood and ink flowed and mingled,

staining the floor with my macabre story.

They will comment on the smile,

a scarlet slash across white marble.

Dressed to impress, I had to leave a pretty picture,

it will make a nice cover

for my manuscript.

I made sure my masterpiece was near

when I plunged my pen, my sword,

through my yearning heart,

the nightingale's song parting my lips.

I made sure I fell just right,

hoping my blood might stain the corner.

It will make a nice addition

to a rich man's collection.

Now all that's left is for me to wait.

Because, you know, it is only after death

that an artist can reach true fame.

Author's Note

Lols. ^.^

Reviews

[Mark D]

Excellent, really enjoyed this!

[Distant horizons]

Nicely penned. Like the style of your death :)