My name's Adam Bruce, I play guitar, act and write monologues, poems and short stories, often concerning emotion and anything else that pops into my head!
Hey there guys, I haven't been able to write as much lately as I've been dead busy with other projects and college work. However, I intend to start writing poetry again.
It sticks to the surface of every home, Drifts down gently, never on its own. Covers the streets, cars and fence posts, But it's favourite is trees, which it covers the most.
I'm sitting here, caged. Silent. My breathing is steady, along with the rest of my body. I'm contained; locked away behind these cold, opaque bars, icy to the touch.
The light slices through the wooden slits in the door, illuminating the numerous objects in a glorious yellow light.
Let us remember them; Their trembling nerves, their charcoal-smothered faces; Their blistered feet and crimson-cut memories. Let us remember them; Their patriotic screams amongst the silent mists.
Work hard, and try and get paid; That's how most stars are made. But it isn't all about skill, and dazzling good looks; It's about what you do, and who's in your books.
Do you feel the chill. The ice is growing colder. It's clear we failed the test. Now the cyan soundscape is closing in around us.
It's almost midnight. I've been waiting for a while now. Too long. You should be here by now. The quiet is unnerving; my hairs are stood on end.
Dear Opuss, Thankyou for giving me the opportunity to broadcast all of my poems and literary works in your quirky little app.
She lays upon the porcelain slab, a deathly shade of pure white, matching the intricate and beautiful gown she is wearing. Her fair blonde hair is curly, draped over her lifeless face.
Sit down and take a moment. Imagine; you're sat in the middle of a ring of tall, grey mountains topped with little caps of crumbly, wispy snow.
The Storm The lightning flashes, And illuminates the clouds. A stream of constant dashes; A watercolour of sound.
Running down halls, running fast, But this feeling of freedom won't ever last. Breathing is coarse, nowhere to hide; It won't be long before I am crucified.
Quick, reflexive, elusive, Invading your thoughts, ever so intrusive; The shade of the trees won't save you now, As portrayed by the sweat running down your brow.
It's like a spider, that clambers down your spine, Or a serpent, slithering down a vine. Whatever it is, it's definitely foreboding, Because it destroys all of your feelings that are outgoing.
In my new picture, it tells quite a tale; A reminder of why my guitar playing shall never fail.
Writer's Block is so frustrating; It always happens when an idea is culminating. Every time you're about to pick up your pen, You're distancing yourself further from your plentiful zen.
When you're laid in bed at night, Tucked under the covers nice and tight, You forget about the things out there; Falling asleep without a care.
What happened to you. You used to be so wonderful; You were a sister-like figure whose advice I'd always take to heart.
So results day has come, Beckoning forth the son and mum To the assembly hall, aligned with desks, Who hold the keys to failure or success.
Sitting here in the waiting room, Slowly realising my appointment is overdue. There's all manner of characters abound, Such as old men with walking sticks Carrying diseases just waiting to be found.
When your tears fall and your heart aches, I am here. When your nose is all snotty and your mascara runs, I am here. When pain strikes and hunger rises, I am here.
I held her close, tighter than ever before. She wrapped her arms around me and cuddled me close.
Memories: They're something we look back on, To bring us a smile when we are down. To envisage a person, Much rather than wearing a frown.
Sunburn really is the worst, I know it's been said but I said it first. Now please pass me the cream, Tell me where I have been; And how I ended up with this terrible curse.
Her soft hands ran down my cheek, tickling each of the hairs that stood on end from the electricity flowing between us. I sighed deeply; this was wonderful. I'd been waiting a long time for this.
Everyone here, loves a simple little dream Because everyone is fun, and certainly not mean. The way to escape them, is by means of a shove; They're also a way to spend time with your one true love.
And there I stood, in the pouring rain, As the size of the puddles addled my brain. I looked around, looked at the shops,p Before being bombarded by large water drops.
You know, there's a legend about an old grove in the woods; they call it the Secret Grove. Not because it's a secret, because everyone in the kingdom knows of its existence.