Poetry of dead poet

So many poems that are written by love,

So many poets in love with his beautiful Muse,

So many beautiful verses full of lots of color,

And to me I find even writing to it...

To her that not appraised me,

To her that one day said me goodbye,

She why I cried,

She who gave me a heinous purpose.

I write as a poet died in life,

my poems are dead with my feelings,

Because my mind and my soul you not forget,

You stop my heart that remorse.

Me Devora verses as absent, called

That burns me and devours me poems of my mind,

I would not return to writing poetry,

But I find in you the inspiration every day.

I'm just a dead poet,

That his verses the wind takes them

In the end I'm always the bad guy in the story,

At the end no matter to what I feel...

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