TwistedAnger

Poetry is in the experience living and breathing in every moment of pain, of love, of hate To write of love you must first know it survive in it and die in it bathe in the sweet notes and revel in its' ending agony then learn to fill the holes it leaves behind those empty voids inside your mind, your heart that's a start to finding poetry To write of hate you must first know it be intimately acquainted with rage that boiling inside a seething bestial thing, caged beneath your chest grinding your teeth to points until finally you snap out , violence and blood drips from your heavy tired hands that's a start to finding poetry To write of de

candycanes sharpened and hooked intercostally in neat succession the treelights' cord a festive trip-wire gifts you with a sweet concussion numbers all over the place scattered about like pine needles a smile over a face betrays hypodermic ones abundance of glowing grace in the eyes of all dead eagles social network interlace demographic: mostly "nones"

the age of the dreamers is never done for in the dark we find bright shadows reflections of what is yet to come revolution in what we suppose. the time of poets is yet to pass for words pierce deeper than any blade transforming hearts to raise and surpass most eloquent mysteries displayed. the renaissance is ever rising. old truths rediscovered and new light filling stale corners, energizing generations to raze lies of night offered up by the tradesmen of fear bartering chaff for the immortal. William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.