You stole my story and something's got to be done about it.
Sometimes, I marvel at the wonderof how graceful words seem to appearpen to paper; in others' handsAnd I think to myself-oh, how obsolete my existence is,to be unable to do the same.
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Sometimes, I marvel at the wonderof how graceful words seem to appearpen to paper; in others' handsAnd I think to myself-oh, how obsolete my existence is,to be unable to do the same.
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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.
Sing a song of suspense in which the players die.Four and twenty ravens in an Edgar Allan Pie.When the pie was broken, the ravens couldn't sing.Their throats had been sliced open by Stephen, the new King.The King was in his writing house, stifling a laughWhile his queen was in a tizzy of her bloody Lovecraft.When the dead maid got the garden for her rank as royal whore,King's shovel made it double and he married nevermore.
If on thoughts of death we are fed,Thus, a coffin, became my bed.
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Going beyond our ordinary concept of self is what always brings us the greatest sense of joy in life. Going beyond our own boundaries brings us an ecstatic awareness of how we are truly created in connection with all that is.