Once more I take my pen in hand,
And write of sorrows, dark and grand.
But ere I weave this tale of woe,
I must apologize, and so

To you, my dear and patient reader,
Who may find my work a dreary bleeder,
I beg your pardon for my style,
That oftentimes may make you smile,

But not with joy, oh no, alas,
But with a sadness that will last.
I know my words can be so bleak,
With themes that make you want to shriek.

I cannot promise to be bright,
And fill your heart with pure delight.
For my soul is but a tortured thing,
And melancholy is its wing.

So if my works bring you to tears,
Or fill your heart with gloomy fears,
I apologize, but know this well,
My tales of woe I cannot quell.

For in my heart, there lives a pain,
A darkness that will always reign.
And so I write what I must write,
And hope that you will find some light

Amidst the shadows and the gloom,
That shroud my words, like some dark tomb.
And so I end this sorry verse,
With this plea, and nothing worse:

Forgive me, reader, if I may
Have caused you grief along the way.
My heart is heavy, and my soul,
Is but a haunted, broken bowl.