What doesn't kill you, let's you live.

He called the words,
I roam to find,
Truth in the madness,
We so relentlessly live in,
Yet, it is not.

Thy call it,
The poems here,
To be labeled,
As something that must fit,
Inside a box,
When it surely can not.

Is my name,
On the streets now,
But is it truthful,
When every single soul,
On this planet,
To call me a writer?

All these words they mention,
Fail to see one thing,
They name it as my cure,
Yet poetry will not save you,
Literature does not shelter you from harm,
Nor does making me a writer,
Is letting me fit in.

All these things thy see in me,
When honestly,
We are all lost,
And so are our words,
Empty yet out in the open,
Words can not save us,
Yet our salvation can be words,
Literature, poetry and writers for example,
They hand us their last breath,
As we read out loud,
The words.

Poetry could not save me,
Hold the bullet,
Poetry could never let me die either,
It just was there in a constant state,
On my side,
Maybe that is the only thing we can hope for,
Something on our side,
Even if it are words.

Literature, poetry and writing will not save you,
Yet words have never killed me either. 

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