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Why is a Raven like a Writing Desk?
Why is a raven like a writing desk? As I sit in my dark chamber the candles flicker in the darkness. The same ghostly music plays in the darkness. I grip my feather pen and write sinister poems signed in my own blood.
The Raven he sits upon my writing desk and watches as I conjure up words of horror with every stroke of my feather pen. I dip my pen in the inkwell for the ink is power to create words that will live on Eternally.
I am locked away from the mundane here in my chamber I feel more joy here, than with the senseless chatter and buzzing of the humans who move about like bees.
I once believed so much in love, but I seems that love is just a dead corpse only a memory of happier times. Of course I would never want to lose my soul to darkness, for no soul wants to die alone. But the world has become so cold, more so than I can remember. I often dream of that cold night in the dark December. Yes I remember the bottles of brandy I drank, and how beautiful her face was. But it seems ideas of love were only dreams. Illusions of my own mind.
I now sit at my writing desk writing dark poems late into the night. The raven watches me as I compose words full of fright.
They say I went insane in a drunken blackout. Tell me my friend, why is a raven like a writing desk?
The Raven he sits upon my writing desk and watches as I conjure up words of horror with every stroke of my feather pen. I dip my pen in the inkwell for the ink is power to create words that will live on Eternally.
I am locked away from the mundane here in my chamber I feel more joy here, than with the senseless chatter and buzzing of the humans who move about like bees.
I once believed so much in love, but I seems that love is just a dead corpse only a memory of happier times. Of course I would never want to lose my soul to darkness, for no soul wants to die alone. But the world has become so cold, more so than I can remember. I often dream of that cold night in the dark December. Yes I remember the bottles of brandy I drank, and how beautiful her face was. But it seems ideas of love were only dreams. Illusions of my own mind.
I now sit at my writing desk writing dark poems late into the night. The raven watches me as I compose words full of fright.
They say I went insane in a drunken blackout. Tell me my friend, why is a raven like a writing desk?
Published 22nd May 2015
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22nd May 2015 8:05pm
I'm not sure why a raven would be like a writing desk. He's usually perched on the pallid bust above the chamber door. And he's a nag. Nevermore? Why not forevermore? And lost Lenore... Maybe she'll be back. See my poem "The Raven Part 2" for further thoughts on the matter. I enjoyed your midnight musings!
22nd May 2015 9:18pm
Oh wow The raven 2? Now that is my cup of brandy! I will go read now! Thank you I am glad you enjoyed my poetry! these are old pieces. I'll be posting my favs daily. But also post some drunk poetry while on the sauce as well!
