The Writer and the Blood Inked QuillA Poem by Adam M. SnowThe candle flickered by a passing gentle breeze; My quill dries up leaving not I at ease. My words upon page now left to hang. A reader's disappointment, now a writer's pang.The Writer and the Blood Inked Quill By: Adam M. Snow
The candle flickered by a passing gentle breeze; My quill dries up leaving not I at ease. My words upon page now left to hang. A reader's disappointment, now a writer's pang. Misery held me as time stood still, My heart has fallen because my mind is ill. I stare at blank page as all words elude me, I can't help to wonder, "How could this be?" Torment follows as night falls victim to dread; My ink once black now turns blood red. I wrote my soul upon each page, As time ticks by with every age. The word itself scream an agony scream; I, the writer without a dream. But what bedevils myself to write, Elude me once more with the fall of night. My nightly whimper comes with a toll, My life upon the page, now bearing my soul. © 2012 Adam M. SnowFeatured Review
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Added on May 4, 2012Last Updated on May 4, 2012 AuthorAdam M. SnowPhoenix , AZAbout"The writer’s mind, can surpass even the most intellectual minds." –Adam M. Snow I keep my work clean, I write to inspire others. Some people would even call me a philosopher, but w.. more.. |

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