I’m getting too old.
For imaginary friends.
No! Not when I write.
Free Stories, Poetry and Essays
I’m getting too old.
For imaginary friends.
No! Not when I write.
Blindness. And silence. But for your own beating heart.
The only sound you’ll ever hear, tearing your sanity apart.
It’s time to cut the cake.
And so the children scream.
In lieu of the silent cake.
Scream, scream. Off with his head!
A/N: We have some weird traditions here in Denmark…
The fairest skin.
The darkest hair.
A mirror never lies.
A single bite.
And seven men.
They fill the air with cries.
When I was alive, my name was Jerry.
Somehow I need to make you know.
If I don’t, I’ll go in an unmarked grave.
Forever known as another John Doe.
“Be the Queen of My Heart.”
What a pointless thing to say.
Rather than promising forever,
You may prove it; simply stay.
Please is such a funny word.
Its ambiguity is quite absurd.
Are you making a polite inquire?
Saying what manners simply require?
Or are you begging on your knees?
Crying as you beg them: “Please”?
I look at bare trees.
I hope death is like winter.
A rest; not an end.
When you realise it’s Friday,
And you have nothing to post.
So you compose a silly poem,
To quickly upload.
Isn’t it funny;
How you are both my biggest pride,
And my darkest secret?