Pompadour

He was just a soldier, after all. Just another man who died in the name of war... Wasn't he?

Look away. ( From the perspective of a psychologically afflicted person)

I know I am wrong. But I don't know why. (From the perspective of a murderer)

Once they were magnificent, now it is but darkness here...

A poem on racism. I wrote it three years ago and haven't ever really had the chance to edit it...

The sky is the limit, or so they say. But the sky itself bends the rules sometimes..,

Not one of my best works... but it was one of my "firsties." From the perspective of a criminal.

You've ransacked my mind and left me to fade in this cacophony, this vale of despair....

Yay! There's a short poem contest! But I don't have any short poems. Here's a couple of random ones I jotted down. Review please?

Wrote this on a whim.

I wrote this in the middle of the night. So tear it to bits, and do it quick.

I'm the narrator. And this is how I see things.

You might be insane. You never really know.

It's the first time I've gone for romance so it might be cliche, but I don't really know. Review please!

"Once I caught a fish alive," but this time, you're the one on the end of the line.

I redefine renovation, and yet I change nothing for every shell is a home to the sea. (It's pretty rough so I'd like some feedback on this!)

This is not a game. Never has been, never will be.

Jet-packs are not illogical. And glass is not a mineral. But we've forgotten, and that's what's sad.

There are so many ways to deal with pain; with the loss of a mother. There are knives, spears and fire. And then there's flying. Always flying.

The world is like a tropical island. If you ignore the fact that it's dying, that is.

You are welcome to walk in these woods. But be careful where you tread...

Even the walls don't talk to me...

If Picasso had painted the seasons...

Just. Turn. Around.... Please?

Watch the bombs tear through, it's more than a battered blitz. There's agony inside you, a tarnished heart that flies and flits.

My first go at Haikus.

WARNING: Contains imagery overload and possible brain-combustion. Rambles on about the enigma that is language, words and just about everything.

If music could dance. If music could quake. My heart's a tattered whirlpool... The music is caging me.

A public service message from Pompadour.

Metal walls. Wooden faces. Broken hearts.

Spur of the moment thing. Because those natural disasters are everywhere.

I need to vent. Or hit something. Hard.

*coughPUNcough*

NaPo ~Day Three~

rubbish poetry about kites and dying.

"My conscience shall never leave me." Meet Matthew Bayres, twenty-two, living in a world where human conscience has but one purpose: To exist.

there is something riveting in the thought of letting convolutions become your envoy

This is what caffeine overdose does to you. >.