Poetry as a Means to Death

I woke on the morning of my birthday, hell bent, hair wet
My task was to end the game, cut the cord, pay the final check
And I would do it with words, your words, their words, sharp as a scalpel

I sat at my desk and inked black, hell sent, jaw set
The reds flowed and torturous yellows, sharp sword, slashing neck
I was doing it with grace, your face, their face, nice and simple

When the end finally neared, hells rent, good bet
My body so much pulp, say the word, no safety net
I was letting all go, your command, their command, smiles so awful

The last you will hear from me…immortal