My name's Tom, these are some scrawlings from the recesses of my cavernous head. I hope you don't think they're too contrived, pretentious or lame. Say hello, criticism is very welcome.
Pendulum pangs, Lucifer's fangs. Pain will end. But probably not. Each step is closer to the comfort in the cemented thought that will not be ever. Falling from rock.
My mind fell down a hole. Deep and dark, It won't get back up. Wraiths slink by, wretches seep through. This hole is a labyrinth. No minotaur, just me.
If I could only smother myself in nostalgia, never clean myself from my memory's sludge. Everything in the past is far brighter than it was in the present.
I signed up to this to get my poetry off the pages of a book, and into a writing community. Yet all I see are Jesus freaks and One Direction lovers. And the top posts are all Twitter worthy.
A sunny mire dowsed in the sun's warm rays, A sunny couple travel a beaten path. A baleful storm pursues their new born days. A path chosen in haste, idiopaths.
You are my glue Whilst you talk of miniscule horizons, You are they. You spit of immaturity, You make me feels eons old and young.
Winter's breeze whips off my colour, You're starting to show yours. I wish you hadn't. Forever drained from my cheeks, fervour raised in yours.
I met a man called David. The wind paved way to his fen, Spasmodic form, supported by mortar, little spine.
And she has, Stone cold pools, air blue, hole black. Her ocean no longer a safe place to hide. Those brown and red bricks aren't a fort anymore. Defences down, Smoke signals up.