Rain turned to ice,and lightning splintered, it splicedthe black sky, it seeped a bright white.All animals they fled,from the sky as it bled,pale death that fell veiling the night.
Some want to be writers when life permits it. There is no part-time in being a writer. It__ an all-in way of living your life through words and feelings scratched out with a pen.
Your Words Will Sharpen
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Some want to be writers when life permits it. There is no part-time in being a writer. It__ an all-in way of living your life through words and feelings scratched out with a pen.
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Wrath crawled out from the well,on direction from Hell,to get back what it once lost.With vengeance in mind,it set out to find,a specified soul to accost.When the Hell-well beckoned,Mother__ will now reckoned,her dead soul now wholly enslaved.Embodied in a rotting husk,the corpse reeked of putrid musk,her being wholly depraved.
To dive in the darkness, I should dive in the truth, then in images of the world..., then facts, then in books, then listening, then in short stories... that's how I write the horror. It's very complicated.
If on thoughts of death we are fed,Thus, a coffin, became my bed.
Fate would never permit happiness to a man of such talent-a content poet is a mediocre one, a happy poet is insufferable.
it was dawning on me how uphill a poet's path was, and I confessed to her that if I had to be the choice between being happy or being a poet, I'd choose to be happy.