We the Incognito Poets.

Nietzhche, Hemingway and One Piece.

When does a man die ?
A quack doctor once told me,
"It is when they're forgotten !"
We take up our pens with no regrets,
As the unnamed samurai unsheathes their katanas.

"For Glory !" I screamed,
Just as they slashed a wound open in our souls.
I showed my guts for them,
And bled profusely until the ink dried up.

While some metamorphosed into Oda and Frost,
Others became the 47 ronin and William Blake.
There's still another breed of anonymous ghosts,
Ghosts trapped within their rusty iron cages of weakness.

Even when the culture condemns us into an abyss of apathy,
We still write in the hopes of regaining our long lost honour.
Write, write, write, write,
write,write and write.
Until we're forced into seppuku.

Reviews

[Rye]

While some metamorphosed into Oda and Frost,
Others became the 47 ronin and William Blake.
There's still another breed of anonymous ghosts,
Ghosts trapped within their rusty iron cages of weakness.

LOVE This part, this is an amazing write, I really enjoyed this.

[Ash]

Thank you for the feedback . . . :)