Winter's Song:
  Wind whipping through my hair,
White fluff swirling without care.
Icy flakes, descending snow
bustling people saying "lets go!".
  I  feel the freedom, all it brings.
The silence of snow, how nature sings!
And I will sing along,
For sure we all know this song.
The symphony of peace on white canvas
To which life choreographs all its dances.
And in that easy light of winter snow,
I sat by the candles, feeling their warm- amber glow.

she was as see through as her
fish-netted leggings.
she sat on the quad with flowers tangled in her braids
and a book of poe on her lap.
she told me about how his voice at 3am over
the phone sounds like god, and how his eyes
look like jesus; she was a catholic girl, raised
with a bible in her right hand, and a handful of experiments
she thought up to change the world when she was seven
in the other. she told me about the cracks in between
his fingers, and how they resemble the roman roads;
not perfect, but they all lead to his heart. sometimes,
she likes to picture the way her right eye
twitches when he kisses her, and then she
starts to wonder about him and how he
treats her similar to her father but the words
to describe this aren’t coming out of her mouth fast enough for her to think of the next sentence.
“tell me about you,” she asked.
i write poems in the dark hours of the night you talk to him;
i am envious of whatever faults you find in his fingers.
i never knew god, but **** i swear i met him in your laughter.
i see your teeth in my dreams but when i wake up, you’re still
talking to him at 4am.
i memorized the way your foot lifts off the ground when you’re about to
take another step, it’s hesitant but curious, similar to the
way i want to tell you all of this but instead,
you sit on this bed of snowbound grass
sharing stories of poe and not enough of what makes your
eyes twitch, or what faults you can find in me. open your hand,
place it over my black heart, i don’t remember the last time it turned red.

I lie awake in the bed
Awaiting a dormant state, a state so elusive so far,
In the cold black room I lay
As expectant eyes burn and water at the witching hour.

I feel something in the gut.
I try to remember people, happy faces, in hopes to sedate.
But something is horribly wrong,
For eerie moonlight does enter the window, but does not illuminate.

The scathing silence gives way
To the horrid sounds of unearthed graves.
The hollow feeling gives way
For doors to open of where death is only a slave.

I am not alone in the room now,
For I feel a presence so vile,
Personification of decay with a blackening aura
Itself smiled a black toothed smile.

I clench with sweaty fingers, my sheets,
My mind conflicted between terror and utter denial.
Every day, I only watch helplessly
As my own mind devours its sanity.

Welcome to My House, My Mind
Written by Adam M. Snow

How is it that you've come to be within my house,
my mind; to see perhaps my wizened soul?
Make yourself at home, unwind; perhaps even might extol.
Don't you mind the many voices and laughter;
they're just the many sides of me.
Calm you down and join me hereafter,
indulge in my fruits of insanity.

I hope your stay will be delight,
an unpleasant one the most;
the hours here may cast a fright,
especially when I am the ghost.

Lay you down and rest assure; the hours, the day,
the morning-struck shall never come.
Give in your fears, it will procure;
it yearns to equal a sum.
I warn you my house, a labyrinth;
get lost would meet your end;
you can run and sprint, your attempts would only descend.

Enjoy the nightmares I have to offer,
they're quite tragic at the most.
Lay your mind within my coffer; give in to your new host.
Let it be succumbing,
an eternity here if you lose your way.
I thank you for coming;
I hope you enjoyed your unpleasant stay.