Anxious Poets Society
The forest fire, ripped, now rages to the looming torch of Hell, to the grieving fields clad in white that now dance to the rolling Poppies.
The pale horses, in terror, break into a heinous gallop. The cannibals advancing, a dozen barrels of mead gulped and yet the pale rider couldn’t be smitten back.
Jack Heeder is a hobbyist writer, usually infatuated with literature and music.
I. Your skin is wet paste sticking to a hospital wristband Under an empty wide gaze that sees nothing. Though I imagine how pretty you must look With your friends at the park, Lying on a picnic table,
blank paper sheets waiting to be filled on the study table, she picked her pen up every ink burst’s her spell word by word, she started weaving kingdom—her utopia. before her eyes, an ethereal scenery
More powerful than a locomotive, able to leap reality in a single bound, it’s a nuclear bomb, it’s a super computer: it’s the age-old strain of virulent addiction. Once in its ravenous and raptor claw