Short story
He sat there, by the old hearth. The warm orange for the fire danced of his slim body. His hair was painted with ribbons and braids. His fingers, gentle as he rubbed them against the wood he was carving. I sat down of the floor, looking up at him along with other children. His voice was warm, gentle. Like Apollo's soft morning light. He spoke of magic, and elves, and dragons. More and more he spoke of. I shall never forget his tales, and I someday wish that I'll be the one telling the words of a poet.
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Poems & Short Story
Poetry!!!WARNING!!! Some of these poems are very, very gory. And talks about blood, killing, dead, unalivement of self. Please people, take care of yourself. You are loved. And if you are in a not-so-good place right now get help and I hope the best for y...
