This city .
Sneakily snaking within my veins
Weighing my losses favourably against my gains
In the dead of night she screams my name
No sleep will I get
But this is London
And I’m not dead yet
She’d always hated the colour red, it represented all the things she found distasteful. Things like tomatoes, red pens, the woman in the red dress he left her for. She was thinking of her when she accidentally-on-purpose hit the red Volkswagen in front. The Volkswagen she had been tailing since it left their house. A red liquid seeped silently across the road. The red mist lifted. She didn’t mind the colour red so much anymore.
Writing has always been the way that I am most able to express myself. Only recently did I decide to try my hand at poetry with some commitment. Poetry always felt somehow inaccessible to me, namely because so much is said with so few words. Brevity was not and is not something that comes easily (I have a tendency to waffle). I believed that the only “worthy” type of writing was prose, be that a novella or an epic.
How glad I am to have been so wrong!
Novice doesn’t even cover where I currently am as a poet. Yet with every awful, cliched poem I present I learn a lot more of what doesn’t work and a little nugget of what does. I am excited and nervous about sharing my work with the internet, wholeheartedly welcoming constructive criticism. I hope to enjoy the work of many talented poets and writers; hopefully making some friends in this wonderful art form.
Here’s to poetry, I am glad to have made your acquaintace, and hope we can become firm friends.
What’s love got to do with it?
Well, everything, actually
Nothing at all
e found solace between the thighs
Of bohemian girls with green eyes
Warmth he found within,the liquid haven of gin
He worked his days with renewed vigour
And killed the whores that dared to snigger
At his inability to please
His happiness was found within his sin
Mortality meant nothing to him
As he pushed further toward the grave
A constant smile on his face
As he wrecked havoc about the place
His mother’s love was lost upon
“Such a violent,sinful and stupid son”
He did not care,didn’t want to know
How he broke societie’s rules
Through being so vile,so indecent,so cruel
Soon the consequences of his action came to pass
Before a judge of law
The Right Honourable man saw
A man, filled,with a hate so raw
Guilty was the verdict given
He was promptly thrown into prison
Now there he is still
Bed ridden,soul fast-fading,ill
Soon the time will pass
When this vagrant breathes his last
The moral of the rhyme is this
You may give into your temptation,your lust
You may betray your loved ones trust
But be prepared for consequence
Rules may seem like nonsense
But they prevent confusion,disarray
And fear from Hell on your dying day