depression (Remove filter)
Grim
The flower grew within, the fumes were fornicated. Bastards grew on paper, spilt ink spread their legs to the core of chaos. Thus the evil brewed bombs. You don’t see a shadow in the dark docile day. Only when it burns you can see your damned skin and the fire. The shadow of a truth turning grey, sat beside by the yellow day!
PC: Unknown
Sunday 1st April 2018 6:29 pm
The steps of losing your mind
You stare.
Thinking isn’t your game, anymore.
Wait for the next reflex to barge in.
Stare.
PC: unknown.
Sunday 1st April 2018 6:21 pm
Clink
Piercing poles of what shattered in abruptness
Has a bit of touch to it.
Strange things with glasses, I tell you.
Sunday 1st April 2018 6:15 pm
Recent Comments
Nigel Astell on August 2025 Collage Poem: A Cut Above
6 hours ago
John Coopey on I SHAN’T ALWAYS BE LOVELY
8 hours ago
John F Keane on August 2025 Collage Poem: A Cut Above
9 hours ago
John F Keane on A Cut Above
9 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on I SHAN’T ALWAYS BE LOVELY
11 hours ago
Mike McPeek on Fallen Leaf
15 hours ago
Graham Sherwood on The Forgotten
17 hours ago
Rolph David on Sonnet: Imigh Hotovely, Imigh Smál Damnaithe! Imigh is Póg mo Thóin! [Out Hotovely, Out Damned Spot! Out and Kiss my Arse!]
17 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on His Majesty’s Stay Out of Hell Cards: “Divine Right” and “Convention”
18 hours ago
Hélène on Elementary
19 hours ago