Some of us here, write about hope while others write about pain.
Some of us here, write about love and that which keeps us sane.
Others write about Death and the souls she just adored.
Penning out their sorrow, the mournful cries strike a chord.
Then are those who write about things and faces that they know.
Describing perfect places, landscapes wrought with snow.
Me? I'm just here venting, it's a need. This urge to write.
Cut off my hands, if you please. I'll bleed a novel out of spite.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC
Some of us here, write about hope while others write about pain.
Some of us here, write about love and that which keeps us sane.
Others write about Death and the souls she just adored.
Penning out their sorrow, the mournful cries strike a chord.
Then are those who write about things and faces that they know.
Describing perfect places, landscapes wrought with snow.
Me? I'm just here venting, it's a need. This urge to write.
Cut off my hands, if you please. I'll bleed a novel out of spite.