an old poem revisited

Bitterness, selfishness, and bad taste haunt the life of the son of a deceased Hollywood starlet

He blankly stared at her lying there all blue-faced in a tangled heap on the red sofa. Unsurprisingly, she looked like she had just been strangled. He wondered how he was feeling.

Your cheekbones cannot save you. from your pickled yellow complexion The continuous flow and ebb, bland and ugly expressions, splenetic eyes that hold back an explosion

In the middle of battle , at home in the clouds , the poet squadron burnt a picture in the sky .

James Irvine limped over to the mantelpiece. His leg had been hurting more than usual over the last few days and he found it difficult to stand still for any time.

It was a formal looking sign. The kind of sign that says "Hey, look at me. I'm better than you" to all the lesser signs of the world. -Welcome to Hell. No smoking, please -Ningún fumar, por favor

This is a story I wrote in grade 9. PLEASE COMMENT! I WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!