The Writers Soul

hand me down lies from one generation to the next ghosts of yesteryear haunt me through many a historical text reading words of wisdom from deep thinkers of the past none have ever written how long childhood would last dwelling in misery hath prevented me from being free while words speak the soul, that darkened abyss of man thine ink is thy blood flowing throughout the land unstoppable violent rages seep from invisible brooks and streams emotions wrecking havoc upon the forest of shallow dreams tis' the writers curse to glorify the hearse within his verse for in death itself freedom shall reign echoes become silent oblivious to pain yet we continue to write adding to the lies that life is best when a soul cries