Is this poetry?
Does it matter?
I have no rhyme,
And little rhythm.
My poems are the raging sea, crashing and bashing and pounding against your mind. My poems force images into your eyes, and fill your ears with sound, and cast you into a world you've never known before.
This isn't my style.
I've been infected.
Take me out, out,
I need to go back.
Fresh is the wind that curls in smoky rings down the street, in the empty winter. Snowless skies and colorless life.
Fill the bucket with rainwater, now, child. Drag it home. Stay away from the red-coated men.
You'll become one of their fur hats.
Sharp is the wind, with needles and knives. Come home, come home.
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
