Adam M. Snow : Writing

Little Bird

Little Bird

A Poem by Adam M. Snow


Does the little bird not know sorrow? It drifts alone in the open air, untouched by either blue of the ocean or the sky above; untouched by the bloods..
The Unknown and the Writer (THE FINISHED COPY)

The Unknown and the Writer (THE FINISHED COPY)

A Story by Adam M. Snow


The idea is that this man, a writer is dying of old age & something happened where he mysteriously ends up in an unknown world where he's a young man ..
When the Tree again is blowing

When the Tree again is blowing

A Poem by Adam M. Snow


When the tree again is blowing, the sky itself is flowing. When the leaves are rustling 'gainst the wind, the world itself comprehends -
The Unknown and the Writer (TEASER)

The Unknown and the Writer (TEASER)

A Story by Adam M. Snow


The idea is that this man, a writer is dying of old age and something happened where he mysteriously ends up in an unknown world where he's a young ma..
A Blood Moon Night

A Blood Moon Night

A Poem by Adam M. Snow


Tonight I watched in awe, the moon once pure and white. Obeying the nighttime law; lighting the sky so bright. The stars, the moon in sync; dancing th..
Call me anti-gay if you want. I am a Christian, I do not hate.

Call me anti-gay if you want. I am a Christian, I ..

A Story by Adam M. Snow


I do not hate and I do not discriminate.
She became My Gallows

She became My Gallows

A Poem by Adam M. Snow


What of this!? Her sweet madness beautiful as snow; that by starlight! The rushes lean over her wide! The intoxication of her insanity draws me close...
Like Sands from an Hourglass

Like Sands from an Hourglass

A Poem by Adam M. Snow


I see the moments falling to the past; falling, like sands from an hourglass. Every memory, just a figment of our imagination; our very existence, our..
The Writer

The Writer

A Poem by Adam M. Snow


In a sea of words, where writers drown, lost in their world's insanity;
Winter Moon through a Third Eye

Winter Moon through a Third Eye

A Poem by Adam M. Snow


Staring out the frosted glass, I ponder there, alone. The moon, at its fullest, its highest peak, all I can think of are words.