He is a writer
With words bleeding from his fingers
With storms raging in his mind
In the calm of the night.
He’s got demons chasing him
In the day and in the night
When nightmares clog his eyes
He might as well write.
How should I bear it?
He asks with all his might
Tired with the burden
He stops for a while.
He searches literary arcs
In the demons and storms
In the calm of the night
He might as well write.
Untold View 
Reblogged this on Thoughts Of A Nyctophilliac.
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Nice… Day by day your poems becoming more sharpened to touch the core.
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