Just a little something I wrote…

Why did you go? -a poem.

The hands that need work
That they can
Just swing the scythe
Cultivate the soil, sowing seeds.

A poem from the dark side of the mind.

A poem about Death.

A poem about a farm labourer who has had a lifetime working on the farm.

My own personal feelings about the time when the reaper’s scythe was about to pierce me. Luckily I came back alive to tell the chilling story.

This story is an adaption of a story I was told when younger by the older kid across the road. It was about an insne farmer that snuck into homes at night time and killed little children. I Like my version better because it gives the farmer a bit more character. tell me what you think of it. Give it a comment, tell me what I did wrong or right.

The Grim Reaper is done doing Death’s bidding.

About fears and the subconscious, and the source of fear.