Poetry Teeters On The Edge Of Insanity Novels & Stories

“And because watching you light, it will be… entertaining.” “Honest,” I said. He inclined his head. “I did warn you,” he replied. He shifted his weight slightly, the movement subtle; suddenly, he was closer, the distance across the ravine feeling thinner, my own breath coming faster in my chest. “How do we cut at it?” I asked, pushing past the way my body was reacting. “You told me I can hurt it. Pull at the loose end. That’s poetry. I need steps.” “Practical little thing,” he said. “Good.”

Russell Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Stuck On You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark Poetry collections: WAR by Alessandro Manzetti and Marge Simon Brief Encounters with My Third Eye by Bruce Boston No Mercy: Dark Poems by Alessandro Manzetti Eden Underground: Poetry of Darkness by Alessandro Manzetti If you’ve ever thought of becoming an author, we’d also like to recommend these non-fiction titles: The Dead Stage: The Journey from Page to Stage by Dan Weatherer

His mind reeled, his thoughts splintering, his sanity teetering on the edge of a precipice. In that moment, he fell. He fell into darkness and despair, into chaos and madness. His body trembled, his limbs weak and unsteady, his vision blurring as the world around him spun out of focus. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a tortured sound that spoke of a pain that went beyond the physical. His heart pounded, a wild, erratic rhythm that echoed in his ears, a constant reminder of the horror of what he'd found. His mouth was dry, his throat tight, his words a strangled cry that was lost in the wind. He clung to reality by a thread, the fabric of his being unraveling, the edges fraying as h

I spent some money on a metal cot and moved into my shop. Bianca came by several times to talk me into going home, but I threw her out every time. I reported the missing jewelry to the police, but without enough evidence, they couldn't open a case at all. I was so anxious that I could barely function, and sores formed in my mouth. While I was sending Mason another message, I saw his latest social media post. [Admitted through a direct admit slot. Stay mad!]

his voice barely audible. Night Reflections – The House Divided Later, the family separated into private worlds: Sandra poured out her rebellion in secret poetry. Tshepo sat outside, trembling, imagining worst-case consequences. Mathapelo whispered prayers, struggling under Kate’s curse. Gail chronicled each day, desperate for control. Abby sipped whiskey, oblivious to the chaos. Mom hummed old tunes, weighed down by depression. The house was full of life—but everyone was isolated within their own fears and secrets.

The night sky stretches above, clear and star-studded, a canvas of serenity that contrasts with the chaos within me. I've always found comfort in writing, and tonight is no different. The words flow from my fingertips onto the screen, a form of therapy that helps me process the storm of emotions raging inside me. As I jot down a few lines about my situation, the poem takes shape, capturing the essence of my pain and confusion. It's a bittersweet creation, a reflection of the tangled web of emotions I find myself trapped in.

Unfortunately no one can get out because asher closed it well causing them to cry and ask for help. "Is that really all you can do?! You really ruined my plan too." he said then he suddenly took control of everything here, I don't know but the pain I feel in my body got worse. He didn't move the students while I vomited blood and a lot of blood was coming out of my ears, nose, eyes as well as my entire body. I feel like I've been poisoned even though I've seen you and my heart is melting... "There is no heaven and hell... this is only the work of one person and let's thank him because.

Turning the music off, I grab the lavender and put it in a tiny glass vase, and set it in the center of the long ebony black dining table. Walking out of the conjoined dining room and kitchen I grab my book, my water bottle, and a blanket. I set the water and blanket by the back door that leads to the porch, and the beach a little off, and head back to the kitchen with my book. Of human bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham. The book itself isn't bad, but from my point of view, it's terribly bland. I like more poetic works. But also a hint of darkness. The best example is the poem, In the Desert, by Stephen Crane, from his book The Black Riders and Other Lines. It has a sense of dystopia that I ca

Dreams come true Since 2011, Winston has dreamed of attending the national literary award ceremony for Writer of the year and receiving the coveted statuette. That year he registered on the portal proza.ru. Since 2011, he has posted his poems on proza.ru and still continues to create in the style of Joseph Brodsky, because thanks to Joseph Brodsky, he fell in love with the poetry and poetry of the master of the 20th century. Among other things, one head of creative projects at the University liked Winston's poems very much, calling them mood poems, and she even invited him to play in a University play. Winston rehearsed a bit, but in the end he turned down the role, considering it more impor

Powerless and weary, he wandered once again towards what is now his own personal purgatory like a prisoner to the gallows, chains rattling over the cold, hard pavement as he drags his feet across the threshold of his cognisance. He felt like he was on his tippy toes, loitering over near the edge of a cliff shadowing raging whirlpools, one foot dangling over the pool of down spiralling insanity, and the devil on his shoulder prodding him with a knife over the edge. He screamed.