Rain turned to ice,and lightning splintered, it splicedthe black sky, it seeped a bright white.All animals they fled,from the sky as it bled,pale death that fell veiling the night.
There are days when writing is within my power and a story unfolds along a_course I've already chosen. _And then there are days when the words breathe on their own and take me by the hand, leading me along unfathomed paths. _Either way, the end result is this author's fairytale.
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There are days when writing is within my power and a story unfolds along a_course I've already chosen. _And then there are days when the words breathe on their own and take me by the hand, leading me along unfathomed paths. _Either way, the end result is this author's fairytale.
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Wrath crawled out from the well,on direction from Hell,to get back what it once lost.With vengeance in mind,it set out to find,a specified soul to accost.When the Hell-well beckoned,Mother__ will now reckoned,her dead soul now wholly enslaved.Embodied in a rotting husk,the corpse reeked of putrid musk,her being wholly depraved.
You stole my story and something's got to be done about it.
I have sat here at my desk, day after day, night after night, a blank sheet of paper before me, unable to lift my pen, trembling and weeping too.
Writing to corroborate what you already think is the essence of bad writing.
All throughout our lives, we selectively draw on selected shavings of life events and reflect upon them through consciousness, creating an arranged catalogue of senses, faculties, and mental activities that compose our personal life story.