Poetry Corner

In the tendrils of crimson fury, I found myself yearning for a place to torment my own self-inflictions, an arrogant, blasphemous forte that drowns in the serenade of bountiful screams,

It is these screams,a soothing torrent of fear, tragedy and happiness, bound in the impressions of the Devil, a proud carrier of what I believe and cherish. He brings forth my nature to a point where I believe what has been dealt to me. They call it a sin, but I believe it is a gift, a justice to those that pry on insecurities in their fascist ideas, their perfected, palatial paradise I yearn to ravage,

They scream " monster", and yet to really know the monster is mentality and personality. I do this because it is nature, not mentality and personality, this is the nature of the best, not the sapien, drawn into the delusions of nightmares, where I reign over to desguise your promises with my own self-gothic imprisonment,

You call this " hell", but I call it my own expression.....

Hair as tangled as branches,
eyes as soft as grey clouds
and cold as the grave.
Winter has approached and left the body and soul.
Free flying love no longer exists,
just billowing sadness along the shore.
For no more with there be
anyone to hold.

vous avez obtenu le courrier!