Learning the Art of Writing

Number 32 NG18 …


The pain goes deep into the ribs.

It irritates more than truly hurts.

Always in denial, as nothing ever hurts now.

She waits in limbo numb with the fear that has taken over.

No gear! No gear! NON

Doors bang constantly, which echo the voice and frame the footsteps.

The voices whisper in the doorway

We need more pain, We need to inject the latest poison into our veins”

Kill life Kill life Kill

The smell of grim lives on the stairs, pathways to hell.

Murky Strangers linger while the dragon courses through their wiry frames.

Down stairs, the entrance to this hell the main doors buzz,

Sticky finger marks the only reminder of these abusers these users.

She the owner of these sites has little, small, four feet nine inches.

It had been said that good things come in little packages.

It must have been used up quickly, because the tracks in her body showing where life used to be for that is all that is left.

The bags by the door full and smelly, the bags under her eyes

black and empty, and face death everyday.

No hope for Hungry Ghosts…..


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