My pen falls on my paper.

   My eyes run over old poetry, and my mind runs over old Edgar. "Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words." An amazingly wise man, in teachings both great and small... But so much pain was the reason of such gain, and I'm afraid that brings us to the quote written by Daniel R. Evans; "Pain is just weakness leaving the body." Poe became strong because so much harrowing pain he suffered, all the while gaining strength in ways he nor any of us understand... But if pain is just weakness leaving the body, then death must be the ultimate strength.
   Why did I write this? So long ago when I was cased in a dark time so terrible that my nightlight then brought no safety? My pen across my paper I believe it was a Tuesday when upon a midnight dreary I fumbled with the ink to spill the words I now saw before me. "I was but a different child, lost and all alone, when Death arrived; a reaper, wrapped in robes as cold as stone." Death came to see me? I must have blocked out the experience... Because there are many thousands of questions I'd like to ask old Grimm. But now I look upon this paper and wonder what has made me croak, all these meaningless rambles of my old good friend the reaper?
   And by the light of the new moon, I understand the reason he kept me waiting- you see, children know such a lot now. No room for such "nonsense" such as fairies and goblins and for some children... Not even angels.
   I remember an angel... He told me his name was Luce. I remember him being completely endearing and exaggeratedly charming. He had winked the heart right out of me, and I almost spilled my wine. But Luce had been a bad boy, he told me he'd done wrong... Told me what a terrible boy he'd been, and how many screams of horror he'd seen.
   But looking at this paper, I wonder why I wrote it- "Skies of ocean blue almost as vibrant as his eyes, the eyes that searched for me in the blackest of pitches, and spotted me under my covers drooling at the thought of me, my blood dripping from out his jowls and pooling on the floor with his amazing blazing entrancing blue eyes..."
   I remember a blue eyed demon, he had come form out of my story book. He'd told me he wished to play a game and I childishly accepted, he told me it was called fetch the bones and he'd cackled with that laugh... His blue eyes never leaving, mine I couldn't quite resist- "Mr. what is it I should be calling you?" He smiled, sharp teeth glinting, "Call me Rigoletto."
   But looking at this paper, I can't help but wonder why I wrote it; "His goats feet clip clapped over the cobble stone surface of my fear, leaving behind red foot prints of redemption and leaving my heart in a race. He smiled, horned head bowing, and told me the end was near. But the light shinned upon him and his hooves carried him away on beautiful galloping strides to lands far off, lands I yearned to taste but knew I'd never touch..."
   I remember a faun, so handsome and tall. His horns spiraled and gleamed. He was poetic and charming -as all fairy tales are- and he dance with a clip-pity clap. He had scared me at first but he couldn't have been worse than the angel named Luce or the demon Rigoletto, he promised me jewels and a palace far off in places that I'd never seen. I believed him and fell for it landing in broken hope shaped as glass shards at my feet.
   But looking at this paper, I wonder why i wrote it- "She flew on a broom stick and her eyes they rolled, she flew faster and faster my eyes traveled round till i fell dizzy and disoriented on the ground. She laughed and threw her black hair my way with the sent of cider and cloves."
   I remember a witch, she had skin green as sea weed, and she flew on a broom stick through  the space in my room. She brought with her a draft and smell of so many spices, and her hair was frazzled as her magic. Lenore.
   But of all the demons I've battled and danced with- I know the worst is yet to come. He'll come crying and wielding a tragedy mast. His tears will beg for my love... Ah yes. I've seen it before, before it has happened, but the sad part is knowing you'll fall.

   Gothica.