The words I weave are born from the dark,
Like Him, I die,
And down I go,
To see hell, right with my very eyes.
It's hard to feel the touch of heaven when you couldn't even imagine the pain from the other side.
The words of pretentious love are toxic,
Like Him, I write,
Words that horrify,
To see what kind of gifts darkness could bring
in the world of light.
It's strange how a little stain from a person's life ends up being the cause of his endless annihilation.
The words of hate are manifestations of pain distorted,
Like Him, I don't cry.
Instead, I fight.
Inside these little books of mine I pour,
All the abominations the human mind can ever conjure.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Of A Count
PoetryThis book is not suitable for audiences with zero percent sense of imagination and a mental age of two and below. I'm not really a great poet, just a guy who knows how to hold the pen and write the twenty six letters of the alphabet. But I like thin...
