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This tale is the story of a farmer:
Harvested the truth of blood, sweat and toil.
With him his wife a loving gardener,
She asks, 'what left of the harvest to boil?'
The saddened farmer looks down at the dirt,
With little of no words to tell - his horse.
Eager to pull out a shotgun all hurt,
He aims at his lame prize with all his force.
Little does he know a dark deepened truth,
His horse to run pastures of further roots.
Forsooth, fired the missed shot all so forsooth,
Ran the farmer on fresh land unlaced boots.
What does one know of his little light horse,
His sole dark prize to truly run its course?
Seven Seals of October - Seal IV - The clever beast with a benign neigh...
Mental, emotional, physical, financial
So much suffering in the world today
People experiencing theirs in various forms
Lack of job or insufficient pay
Cancer, AIDS, depression, diabetes, ******...name it
Cost of basic needs is becoming unbearable
Lost of loved ones
Lost of cherished relationships, betrayal
Lot of people are using drugs to numb the pain
No matter how long the night is...
Morning will surely appear
Darkness will always bow to light
There is abundant light within, let it out!
It's just too many things to worry about of late...
Classy 4h
the sun always rise from the darkness,
and so are you,
my dear.
A cacophony of darkness
The silence of his thoughts
An extinguished candle
But the burning melancholy
Like a wanderer in the desert
Only the night brings him refuge
W 8h
Music takes you on a journey
Where you forget all your problems
But still feel different emotions
It takes you to a whole different universe
But still makes you see your universe in a different light

W.K
bk 20h
You where
My ray
Of light
In a world
Of black
And white.

b.k.
Everyone understands
I believe, they will
If not today, some other day

But what to do
With their
Preoccupied contents

I can lead them to the light
But what, if they enjoy
Confinement

The same air
Inhaled exhaled
By the stubborn heart
Genre: Abstract
Theme: Why change is hard to accept?
Is death the final option?
the only option,
other than crippling depression?
Just listen to me,
you can hear me I promise
but not understand.
That's what pushes me,
not understanding.
I don't want love anywhere else
just here,
but I need you to understand
my life depends on it.
Touch my hand
None shall see it
I promise

None but the
Silver moon
An allied to us

It will light up
The trail
It will guide
Our paces

And what about
The darkness that
Surrounding us
My love?

I'm scared...

Skeleton boughs
Creeping all around
My hollow body

Distant howls
Mislead me from you
I feel lost

I'm scared...

Touch my hand
And nightmare's web
Will fade away
I promise

But they shall
See us!
They'll see us
My love

None but the
Silver moon
I promise
To write wasn’t a passion of mine,
When I learned of life?
My brain suddenly sparked a fire.

You see,
We’re always plunged right into the sea!
I can’t help but swim frantically.

I’m not a swimmer though,
So I kept on sinking.
Towards the abyss.

In a dark place,
I found something darker.
The ink of my pen.

Seeing as my darkness doesn’t compare,
I saw my own darkness as light.
Now I write when it’s night.

I couldn’t make any rhymes,
Just incoherent thoughts.
I wasn’t creative enough.

I couldn’t draw any art,
I couldn’t compose any songs.
All I can do was speak.

Now?
I can just speak without a voice.
This pen of mine speaks.

I’m an open book,
Talk to me and I talk back.
My doubt riddle words.

In my darkest days,
Where my voice doesn’t echo back,
I have my pen.

Light isn’t a reflection of others.
It’s a spark within your headspace.
When everything else disappears.
I’m in a dark place, and whenver I’m down here, I write whatever I can. Raw thoughts, incoherent, abstract, random, gibberish, trash. I writ when I’m down, it’s an outlet to plunge myself deeper so I could die and respawn. My creativity doesn’t exist; only destruction on paper.
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