I like the words I have yet said

Like poetry left unstirred

The space between every line 

Every letter, leaves room 

For the undead

Red, shred, dread, and led

It doesn't make sense

But makes meaning instead

The space between every line

Every letter, leaves room for freedom

That life permitted you not, that you not need, rather than want

Stirred, a letter is a rebel, and a line is an army

You can't fight with poetry, 

But you fight with words

The horrific demons inside your head and those outside of yours

Permitted, left you undead.