Senses Fail Poem by Isaak DeMaio

Behind the closed door,
a writer's attempt begins
the continuous story of a-
song that was introduced time and again.
It was a spec of time,
a year or two ago,
where this song was heard;
bliss was followed,
and beauty destroyed.
The sad song was scrapped-
he knows who he longs to be.
The bliss bleeds from the pen;
the only thing he does somewhat right; indeed.
Though the only thing he hasn't done yet,
was to die, in any sort of way.
Glass filled with confidence,
fame isn't his ideal cup of tea -
my face on the cover ofTime -
would be an honor filled with glee,
but in recognition and -
not as the face of everyone's misery.