Liverpool Street
I’m looking deep. Your eyes. Puffed and crowed. We sit on the step Blue plumed Silk Cut comforted. Grass marks on jeans. Your boots unpolished. Where they kicked me.
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- 1464 reads
To Be a Poet
To be a poet, you have to show it. The words don’t have to rhyme every single time. Just look inside you. Write down what YOU feel to be true. To be a poet,
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- 822 reads
Where the Daisies Grew.
I knew my way from there and a small part of me really wanted to take in all the changes
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- 854 reads
Three Mile Drove, Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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- 1041 reads
Life What does it mean to you?
How do you view life? I was negative, and willing to give up, but then I learnt truth. This poem is a reflection of that
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- 662 reads
Sunday Morning
Andrea ran heavily after the tiny dog, her body aching and exhausted was no match for that of the young dog.
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- 1128 reads
THE HEART OF MAN
,,,becomes a spontaneous nightmare of mirrors reflecting mirrors, which collapse upon themselves crashing headlong into the beast ,,,
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- 1194 reads
Say „Cheese“
The body glimmers in a dancing sheen of notoriety and blood.
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- 1006 reads