I wrote a poem back in high school-- a bad one inevitably, as most semi-goth artsy fuck drama girls are known to have composed in high school. I think I wrote it in geometry class (another gem of a explanation behind the neverending flow of C's and F's in a variety of math and science classes and the A's in english. . .) The poem was probably a bordeline suicide notion, I can't remember how the hell it went, but the title always stuck with me, "epithet dreamer".
Haunters love their epithets and being a self-professed headstone addict, feeding freely on faux cement and marble markers come the Halloween season, I'm no different really. Last year I began dabbling in making my own gravestones, so I came up with quite a few. Ironicly the words would string themselevs together int hat daze between sleep and conciousness, as most ideas seem to. Post-it's and my the tiny notebook on my bedstand grew fat with them pretty quickly.
These are some of my favorites that made it into last years post-apocalyptic display, surving the wind and rain of a near wash-out night: