NaPoWriMo - April 1st

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

G. M. Stroll

About me: I'm a 30 year old schizophrenic author, living in Montreal. I took up writing, at first, to give a gift to a sick friend of mine; dedicated to raising money for charitable research into her illness. I discovered that I loved the trade, and made a short hop over into fiction a couple years ago. I'm currently in the process of querying my first fiction novel, Trinity Divided. My inspiration is generally drawn from music, but equally every psychosis I've survived has left me with shattered dreams from which to piece together a story. Through all the mediums one can write, I'll always have a love - hate relationship with poetry. To me, poetry is a thinly veiled window into our deepest emotions.

G.M. Stroll can also be found on Authonomy.

Enter slowly, from the door;

Come before me, whom I abhor.

Dreams of faintly painted pains;

Leaves my spirit empty and drained.

Forlorn deeds from serpent’s breath;

Bring my soul to a place beyond death.

From there I wake to a host of dreams;

Real though haunting, they aren’t what they seem.

In this place of shadows forsaken;

My life isn’t gone but my sanity taken.

Beckon unto me thy will;

Egos of a rotten face.

With lamenting the holes will fill.

Forever dreaming of a place;

To rest upon my weathered bones.

Journey no more, I’ve found a hut.

And from this shelter I make a home;

To slumber in my little rut.

All the while dreams will pass;

My scattered thoughts, like shards of glass.

Sudden reversal of fortunes true;

Glimmering like a fiery spark.

Thoughts are skewed and found anew.

Rows on rows like teeth of a shark.

They mix and churn into one big pot;

Understanding the facets of the brain;

Forming in my mind, into a clot.

I look upon them with a slight strain.

Some of these did not belong;

And so I sort them with dismay;

Plans and designs of something wrong.

To find myself, once again I pray.

Beyond tatters of despair;

I can taste bitterness in the air.