These violent words on paper,
written in blood,
stained with tears
and tragic lust...
angry emotions,
twisted with rage
suicide on a page,
to end the days...
What is this symphony we call life?
the opus of night and day.
With the raven flying high
against the moon...
We march to our death.
A soliloquy is sung
from the highest
of mountains,
a wailing cry,
from the most innocent
of creatures...
We all died
a little bit today,
hearses line the streets,
people clothed in black
to mourn our brothers...
A sip of poison,
a gunshot to the head.
We all died today...
Author notes
Writers block owns my life.
In a list
writers block....bleh.
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
-
It rules everyone
But that doest seem to stop you! Your words sure painted a picture in this one, very well done.
-
-
Thank you!!!! I love random words that erupt so beautifully on paper!!
-
-
Poet
Excellent. What are we if not a part of the total sum of humanity. But the harsh reality of today is that an innate colndness has gripped our hearts and we suffer mightily for it. Great deep write.
-
Oh My goodness.. Powerful write! Strong emotion!! This is sad.. Beginning to end this is deep. Great job hun!! Keep your head up..Look forward to reading your more from you!!
*Kelsi*
-
Well.....
Read yor profile, and sorry to hear of your troubles. Yet you seem to be a person who has an underlying ability to savour joie de vivre, even if that is rather heretical in the dark world.
I sometimes think that all sad youth ,for whom the world is worse than when the world began
Should get a grip, .............and try their luck in wild Afghanistan!
but not you. You made such a nice remark to Vonnie, in her grief.
Adding your comment:
1 - 5 of 5
