I will kill the cynic.
The living-dead man of poetry
A bastard son to emotion
His calling card is “sadness”
With a preference to the cliché
A rotten corpse of art
Turning back the pages.
To which his throne rest upon a mountain
Crafted by the hands of knowledge
A tower of burning books.
Never read and not worth reading.
He is a child to The Raven
Onto which he barely understands
A heretic of the Avant Garde
Wearing armor of sham
Crucify him on his dusty writing desk.
Tear back his tattooed flesh
Reveal the child inside
Hold her by your side
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Confessions of an Empath
The birds are chirping, and the sun is shining in a cloudless July sky. The vibrancy promises a beautiful day, but the cooing of the Mourning Dove perched on the powerlines seems to be more fitting than the lively songs of the robin flitting through the trees. The melancholic calls of the dove cloak the world in a sadness that hangs like tattered drapes.
By Alyssa Nicoleabout 23 hours ago in Confessions
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