Jeff Oliver was born in Baltimore, Maryland on April 6th, 1982. Jeff began writing dark poetry at just eleven years old: transferring darkness to paper at such a young age. There are thoughts about a troubled childhood, thoughts of love and imagination that never elude his pen.

Jeff’s words are real to him and connect with so many. He writes with intense emotions. He is as passionate as they come and will continue to write from the deepest corners of his soul. Sometimes searching his own soul scares the Hell out of him.

His books include: Strange Sounds, Poetic Fiction: Journals of Silent Screams, Scattered Thoughts, Volumes I, II & III, Drops Of Insanity (Cosby Media Productions) and Venomous Words and New World Monsters (both from HellBound Books).

A poet by passion and a father of eight beautiful children, Jeff’s dedication to his family and his craft is second to none. He lives in Western New York State with the love of his life Jennie.



The imagination of a writer can be terrifying.
We never know what will come out.
We never know what is waiting to come alive.
Sometimes there are monsters.
Sometimes there are demons and parasitic leeches.
There are horrible creatures awaiting a feast.
We frantically write about them in bleeding ink.

We are bleeding within our screams.
A writer’s imagination is something to see.
Sometimes our imaginations are calm.
Sometimes they are euphoric.
Sometimes they are locked in an unbearable sadness.
Sometimes it’s a rhetorical twisting maze.
Everything changes within an instant in a writer’s brain

There is no right way to insane.
There is no wrong way either.
Inside of the walls are fairytales containing many Witches with cackling laughter.
The loud screams and the cackling echo loudly on the trail of crumbs that were left.
In a language that is not making sense.
Our thoughts become flooded in the screaming mess.

We are at our best within insanity.
We are at our worst at the very same time.
How will you react when you cross this fine line?
Which way will you cross?

There is never a correct answer.
A writers eagerness kills internally like a raging cancer.
The imaginary wolf and the dancer.
The demon with its mind-numbing scepter.
There is an Angel following closely after.
A writer’s imagination brings our own nightmares to life.

Our own fight.
Our own souls.
Our own light.

These pages laced with ink scream so viciously into the night!

Is it perfect?
Is it right?

It’s pounding in our heads.
It’s perched on our window panes.
We try so hard to figure out the signs.


We never know exactly what to do,
So we write.

We write about our monsters as we bring them to life.
We write about love and how it feels just right.
We write about the moon.
We write about the stars.
We write beyond the sky…

Normal people will never know what it’s like to feel this high.


Forgive me for the passion that often overwhelms me.
Forgive me for my selfishness that I know shines off of me.
Forgive me for the moments that I’ve missed out on almost entirely.
Forgive me for the pain that leaks out when I can’t breathe.
Forgive me for the fire that rises so high.
I also grow tired of it burning in my eyes.
Forgive me for the voices that scream underneath.
Forgive me for the ignorance that spewed out of me.
Forgive me for the person I never dreamed I would be.
Forgive me for the fire that rises so high.
I also grow tired of it burning in my eyes.
I also grow tired of Hell’s consistent lies.
I also grow tired of the teardrops flowing violently from my eyes.

I’m so tired…
I’m fine.


Here I am again in the place that you don’t want to be.
Here I am again trying to break free.
There they are again those fucking monsters in my mind.
There goes my skin again being eaten alive.
It always grows back.
That doesn’t make it hurt any less.
The same things attack like it never even happened.
I’m a residual soul hitting that repeat button in my head.
I’m walking through a place where the sane can never walk again. 
I’m choking on puss and I’m drowning in regrets. 
Taking baby steps through madness doesn’t make any sense.

I’m not protected here.
I never was. 
I’m running in circles here!
I always was.

Shooting blanks in the darkness as I’m screamed at.
“Your Fucking Bullets Can’t Kill Us!”
I’m marked.
I’m tearing my limbs apart.
With paintbrushes in hand, the Demons start their art,
Painting the lyrics of the songs that will never make the charts.
This is the place that you don’t want to be.

This is an illusion that you don’t want to see.
The creatures within this place are relentless and crafty.
Their laughter masks the reality that stays screaming.
It’s all about revealing.
It’s all about not believing…
Not believing in those things that you thought you were seeing.
Out of your mind while dreaming.
Those nibbles at your toes are now stumps excreting.

They’ve taken everything now.
It gets quiet within the silence of the place you don’t want to be.
I’m so sorry that I didn’t warn you sooner…
They’ve also cut my tongue from me.