This poem by Edgar Allen Poe inspired me to write. This and the movie that was based upon it. I decided to make a twist of both and when I saw a small unfinished part, I liked it and showed my friends who adored the poem for various reasons. They love it too. I hope you all enjoy it too.
The Raven
by: Edgar Allen Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door 
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you " here I opened wide the door; Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.
Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; 'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered not a feather then he fluttered
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster so when Hope he would adjure
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure That sad answer, "Never nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Let me quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
On this home by Horror haunted tell me truly, I implore
Is there is there balm in Gilead? tell me tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us by that God we both adore
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted nevermore!
"Raven? Come on, it's time to accept your destiny. You are the Raven of Death, the Lost Lenore. Come... See the souls of those you've loved who love you in return."
I am Raven. The reincarnation of the Raven of Death. I am the Lost Lenore. In my heart beats the poem of Poe, in my mind it speaks to me. Everyone I have loved has died because of me. I suffered alone since I was a mere child.
My mother dies of very severe pneumonia after I was born. My father, having thought I had been a stillborn child, killed himself so he wouldn't suffer without his true love or a piece of her. So I had been adopted and raised, unknowing of the lie I lived. Unknowing of my future.
I lived normally like any other average child. Until I was about 10 years old. At night I would toss and turn, dreaming I was a flying bird, a Raven. I'd fly to someplace to perch and see the death of someone whom I did not but felt like I did.
And every night I would wake before dawn, feeling as though I'd been floating in mid air and thumping back into my bed. I'd have a cold sweat broken out over my skin, and I would shiver as if I were freezing and nothing could warm me up. And just before my eyes flew open and I sat up, I'd hear the same phrase every time. "Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' "
It continued for about two years and I thought nothing of it extraordinary. Until the night of my 12th birthday. My mother had dropped me off at my grandmother's and remained there until I was fast asleep. Then as she was driving, someone who had been drinking didn't see her and ran right into her side of the car and into her door. Her neck snapped. Oh, it was a resounding crack that made me shiver. Yes, I was dreaming this as it happened. I was the Raven of Death again. Again, I heard the phrase and woke up, crying out my mother's name.
No one understood it how a young girl like me could see my mother die before anyone else could verify that. They believed I was making up stories. No one questioned me further after I said, "The Raven told me. In my dreams."
My father soon sent me to a boarding school. After I arrived there the dreams stopped and I felt normal once more. During a literature class we read a poem. The poem titled The Raven and written by Edgar Allen Poe. For once, it all made sense. My dreams actually made sense to me, but still no one understood. I was the heart of Lenore, the body of the Raven of Death, and the mind of Poe. Everywhere I could see gloom even in the brightest and happiest of things.
After just reading the poem once, I had it memorized and could recite it flawlessly. And with such gloom and sadness, it seemed like I was the living proof of the poem. Recited with such spook and so real.
Soon after I found a friend who enjoyed my recitings. Her name was Catalie Dehunn. She taught me very fluent German, French, and Spanish. As well as enough Chinese to recite the poem again in all four new languages. I would perform for the drama and literature groups using Poe's works, never missing a beat or syllable. For once I felt normal. Catalie was proud of me.
I had been 13 when I arrived at the school. It took me two years to complete four years of school. At 15 I left there and came home. Catalie visited during the holidays and once or twice during the summer. And we wrote letters very often.
But the saddest day was on the very last day of her final year there. The dean wrote me a solemn letter saying that Catalie had been raped and beaten to death by the assistant principle, who had been fired and is now on serious trial.
What shocked me most was that I had a dream that night about a girl who was raped and then beaten and tortured to death. It pained me that it had been Catalie. All I could see of the girl's face was her bruised eye. It was all a blur.
Again I became so withdrawn and feeble. I felt so empty. Catalie was all that brought actual light into my world and without her, there was pure darkness again. She was like a true sister to me, and I missed her dearly.
At her funeral I recited the poem The Raven in English and in her native tongue German. At the recession her father approached me and congratulated me on my recital. He had never heard such fluent German here in America in years. And the poem he felt had completed Catalie down to the last word. He spoke the phrase, that phrase which I heard every night before I awoke, both before my arrival at the school four years ago and then a week ago after I'd been alerted of Catalie's death. "Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' "
That very phrase started my gruesome nightmares again. This time, they were worse, as if they'd been waiting to attack with a vengeance.