There is frigid air that warms me still
Hovering o'er my sullied skin
It guides me through those moonless nights
Slipping through my thoughts within
The shadows of night dance on walls
Flickering to and fro.
Watching them wave and wander about
Tiptoeing away down below.
The ticks and tocks of Mr. grandfather clock
In rhythm with their flourishing ways
I follow them down and through the halls
Like magic in sweet sleepy haze.
When sleep falls tonight
Though I plead it to wait
Welcome it I will
With this flawless state.
Sweet silence swaying in the savoring sun. I spoke once, but not since then. But still those words do echo still though the cavities of my soul. Bound by their secret wild tongue. Mysterious wondering it does partake in to flow through the night and back again through you, and I, of course.
Vibrant eyes visibly extinguish their gaze through grime and farther away from the hilltops they hide. What, they say. Excuse me, I do not understand, they exclaim. But no help is needed because it will be useless. Not for eyes that havent yet seen the wonders of the sweet silence swaying in the savoring sun.
Not yet, but la
Crash Went The Thunder by TheMonsterMash240, literature
Literature
Crash Went The Thunder
Crash went the thunder! Flash went the lightning! Mr. Gladstone stood there, grinning a grin that showed no shimmer of gladness, but instead then grin of a mad man, a Manson grin, a twisted grin. The sound of the pelting drops of rain on the windshield matched those of the pelting shards of glass against my face as Mr. Gladstones bony fingers penetrated the window in the form of a unified, bloody fist. The contact between my cheekbone, the glass and his right-handed knuckles was tremendous! Invigorating enough to invite him to seconds, and even thirds and beyond. For time was slow, and the real agony experienced was not my own, but of p
There is frigid air that warms me still
Hovering o'er my sullied skin
It guides me through those moonless nights
Slipping through my thoughts within
The shadows of night dance on walls
Flickering to and fro.
Watching them wave and wander about
Tiptoeing away down below.
The ticks and tocks of Mr. grandfather clock
In rhythm with their flourishing ways
I follow them down and through the halls
Like magic in sweet sleepy haze.
When sleep falls tonight
Though I plead it to wait
Welcome it I will
With this flawless state.
A smile would not be nearly enough.
To grin would simply make my heart to tough.
To joy would merely destroy my thoughts.
And song would cherish the battles that I fought.
I am a the smoke of a burning tree
That burnt in the quest for love of thee
The fire the ice, the heat the cold!
I would fight for you, for I am bold!
For you dearest dove remember me,
For I am the knight that hath loved thee.
This is a tale of my writers block
It may not exist, but it certainly does mock
The cramp in my hand and the tears from my brain
For I my friend am going insane.
Why it does this I shall never know,
And when I did stop, I took a hard blow
To the limb that bears this lovely hand
Which cannot write. It makes me Mad!
I took a bath, it did not work
I looked a the page, it gave me a smirk
I screamed and the pen that tortures me.
I dream of the day that Ill be set free.
I cannot, my love, do this anymore
For my tears are dry and my fingers sore
From the literature that makes me hate
This wordless, lineless, mindless state
Men, women, children and old
And sometimes the dead that even grow mold
They take us to hell and back again
And I when get there? I will never know when.
To the man with the brave gun that would shoot down the sun
To the gambler with greedy finger and the cards that always linger.
You are no the sun, nor the sun you
Your hand is not greedy, but you contorted addiction is
Dig out the tar and remove the glue
That chains down your soul and retrains me from you.
The worst thing about Ann Coulter
isn't that she's such a dolt; her
hand is too long,
her words are so wrong,
and it looks like a snake tried to moult her.
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