Into the depths of my twisted mind, I present to you the worst (well, more like earliest) poems I ever made.
The snow glows bright,
On the winter night,
As the moon smiles,
At the white piles.
-First poem, made when I was 6.
The damned still exist,
Finding hope where there is none,
When they have many woes, enough to fill a list
Through suffering, their knowledge they hone.
-One of my more 'sophisticated' poems, I don't even know what this means. I think I was under some kind of voodoo trance when I wrote this.
Life is nothing but a collection of lies.
Nothing more than some lows and highs.
When you give it up, you release all ti