The Poet, the Pen, and Page.

The skill, can be a talent.

Or a curse.

Among, many that seek.

To write Master pieces.

I seek to write deformities.

The un-touchable.

Un-godly, and horrible deeds.

To view the creatures.

That led my pen upon paper.

Forever dwelling in the darkness.

Of words that we dare not think to go close too.

To see as our character come to life.

Manifested.

Fiends.

Hideous.

Disgusting.

The Purest of Nightmares.

But to stray far from the holy lands.

Of poetry origins.

Is to be executed.

By the punisher.

I simply enjoy the great satisfaction.

Of seeing that twisted man’s axe.

Grow near my neck.

Many write.

About Love, Sadness, Anger, and Eroticism.

My stories are one of a different kind.

Misfits among normality.

Monsters that walk on my paper.

The thrill of my words.

Defiling the paper.

With my thoughts.

My disturbed literature.

It may not be perfect.

But it is ugly.

Beautifully ugly.

I’m not here to please your taste.

I am here to spark.

That fear.

Of uneasiness.

To provoke that unholy side.

To send those in a frenzy.

Seeking more and more.

Of this damnable.

Poet’s madness.

To one day write my works in my blood.

To write the sinners stories.

Viewing the show in the front lines.

Seeing the players.

Fall one by one on my slate.

I love to observe.

To watch the demons eat them alive.

I believe every writer is cursed.

 To see humanity.

As the true animals they are.

For we are the audience.

And the world is our show.