The Properties for Which I Write

The Properties for Which I Write

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In these chapters I call hallways is where my suffering began. Huffing and staggering trying what little I could to reason my insanity.There is no chaos to compare in my world with what has unbond me. Sunken to the depths of my own sweet sweet sorrow.This house, my home, my world as I know it has been lost. Forsaken by my own greety filthy ways.Deep in thought I write for what little sanity remains.This is the story of my life, go figure.As far as I consider going is where I will stop. Where that is exactly is anybody's guess. The question still remains, or shall I say the quest still remains.Wanting daunting dabbling in the miseries of my mind. Why have I took on this calling? It's threshing grip grabbing me, holding on making me stay. The life of a writer is no life. Not for the weak or the forsaken, not for the nobody.With little dreams I dabble fantasizing on what could be. What should have been, before the darkness hallowed out my mind. In the dark and twisted corner for which I stand, my screaming spirit tortures what remains. My hands scratch the walls so that my pain may pass to it. Someday, Someday.By Mercy Penmen. Every darkness that has passed the eyes of this world lie down with in more

Product details

  • Paperback | 100 pages
  • 128.52 x 198.37 x 5.84mm
  • Createspace Independent Pub
  • English
  • Large type / large print
  • Large Print
  • 1508428522
  • 9781508428527