As long as I could connect and make the words flow I painted the world in my lyrics. At first I found muse even in the smallest of things. As I learned more my words grew and expanded. Rhythm fell in place and danced in my provocative scenes. But the sun's rays no longer see the point ink upon parchment. Death and macabre bleeds out. Happiness seems nonexistent. Ravens cries "Nevermore" as I sit by candle light. The once the tell tale heart is overwhelmed with the silence. Is it my insanity that is the method of intelligence or is the raw gnawing rage the fuels the beast?