This is not poetry that is meant to warm your heart on a summers day while you sip lemonade against a poppy back drop. Poetry read as the sun kisses your cheeks and your lover lays in your lap as the sweet words of poetic voice sings from your lips.

 

No, I’m very sorry to tell you that this is  a book of sadness. Meant to be read on a crisp autumn night as the wind whistles through the barren trees and fires crackle on television screens since no one seems to have fire places anymore but we still yearn for their comfort. This poetry is meant to be read in sorrow, or to understand sorrow. It is collection of the worlds combined torment and anguish that leaves its reader filled with a burning flame of passion and anger and the desire to scream WHY at a nonexistent god. This is a book, for lack of a better word, of hauntings.