Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849)
Suffering Through Life
Why did i write...when life was not right?
A devasting fate straight from birth yearned my rising years
cries of unsuprising tears couldnt wash away my demising fears
Lies to hear; calmed my anxiety of harm timing death around me
a mess surrounds me, weights apon my shoulder rests profoundly
Dreadful memories attack like war scenes tempting my potency
however mostly owning me,life slowly grows to be lonely
Dark visions poison my views terrozing my miniature mind
embracing more defects through time
eventually unable to recognize a signature....
that comes to be mine
Yet I Write.......Why?
Hard to explain the pain that substains a crowded Psyche
Deaths tie tightly around my soul that grew through the unlikely
made it through the first two years of a lovely life all except
the hatred i would form down the road when my father left
also i cannot forget
the morbid memory that rendered my future through emotions
young delt with commotions of my mother dieing of tiberculosis
suicidal devil offered to my thoughts bet never thougth to bother
until i was disowned my a dishonorable cheat of a step father
Damned! going to be a man i no longer had a man to go to
no mother to hold you,woman raised me still no idea the pain i went thru
when she paved my mothers steps sending her to the named grave
Death is haunting me and my anna bell lee?....
"I will Murder you death"seeing my first wife lose life the same way
death weakens me causing flips of psycotics trips, stumbling my views
A masque of red death embarks on a journey of not so humbling news
dues of drugs prescripted an addictions that sent my soul to oblivion
its obvious i was given talent to slip him of having to deal with living
especially when i had manic episodes,depression,diseases to weep
i could go wide eyed writing for keep,body weak from living off no sleep
tempted to try suicide many times, replaying in mind a horrific act sat
of my troubles......Signs of badluck?
insanity,murder,irony,pride,& beauty all found written in "The black cat"
I write more and more yet what is right sets on me is never more
"Damned this earth" is trully ment and deserved thru my great lenore
Pieces piece together dread leaving peace left better dead
because to keep true to myself,lieing of a great life is left unsaid
Still i write a chillness that leaves a room filled with stillness
quickness to relate to death is sick,let alone i show the illness
I write because of revenging heart?.....
you think i have that, hard to erase the facts that impacted my career
i struggled through life with every horrible ending people could fear
with only lighting coming from the writing to make the clouds clear
make this a lesson to show the question of why i write
it may be your passion where you live for it....
as where i had to literally write for my life