A Writers Wounds

Nightmares cursed to paper; the harbinger a pen full of blades

A scythe sets tomes to stone; the blood of a poet makes its stain

Wordful storms of literary hail that mercilessly rain down without remorse

Sanity accused of logical heresy set to fire

Insanity leeching off the unholy flames

As I bleed my story onto blackened page in varying tones of a banshees scream


So I present for your guilty pleasure

Every ounce of my pain


Gamblers Delight, A Fighters Right

Ashen face and reddened lip, a flash of blood on whitened teeth as with grimace grim he launches into the fight

The sting of a fist to the face, the overlooked cut, as a blade blindly thrusts to casually split flesh

The pain an echo of the fact that life is not done, a debt of suffering to be fulfilled by the deed of a blade

The avenging dagger seals the opponent’s fate with a flick of the wrist, fortunes lost on the gold coins bartered

Life like blood on the soiled sand is but a thing to be brushed away, men willing to shed the mortal cost as viewers casually pray for gamblers luck