Emotions are addictive,Sometimes not predictive,Wait, emotions predict you?No, you should wear a shoe.This poem was meant to be serious,But it seems to have taken a turn,that wasn’t even a rhyming couplet,nor was that.Not all poems have to rhyme,But if they do, you’re gonna have a good time,It’s all about diction,Maybe prediction.Whatever,Forever,Seems that longSince bong.I’ve never taken a bong,So long!

Bleh, I’m tired,I I had a job,I’d be fired.Self employment,Isn’t much enjoyment,But screw the alternative: Deployment.My eyes are closing,Now I’m fallingAsleep. And in closing,I’m tired,but wish I was wired.Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

He grabbed an incense stick and lit it,Watching the tip glowing, he remembered.It wasn’t something he wanted to remember,But it came to him. The fire. It took his family,His friends and his sanity.It left him with a fear of fire,And yet, he became an arsonist.He started fires to cope.He tried to comprehend the power,But all it led to was senseless destruction.Not just of whatever he set fires to, but him.He destroyed hims...

I went to the park today. I had to do something. Laziness was setting in, so I decided to take a walk. The past month or so, I’ve been quite lazy, staying in the house and doing not much. Working quite a bit, right enough, but it isn’t exactly very fruitful. No fruit for me. When I got to the park, I headed to my favourite tree, which I’ve talked about before. It’s a y-shaped one. Some sort of evergreen. When I sat on it,...

Sometimes I wonder what age people think I am. I mean, I know I don’t act like I’m 29, but I am, sadly. I’m 29 and still get asked for ID. Even for fag papers. Okay, so I don’t buy them any more because I’ve given up smoking, but over the past year, I have for friends who still smoke. It’s kinda sad, but I was always know as the one who had the perpetual fag in his gob. I love how British that sentence is. Anyway, what ag...

Forsooth, the man, he lost his tooth!How he lost it, we have no proof.Was it an enemy going *boof!*?Or maybe, he lost it in Magaluf. He needs a denture, but where to go?The dentist? No, he is awfully slow!So, perhaps, he should go to bedand rest his head.Oh, look! He's dead.He died of an abscess,his bloodstream, bacteriawas allowed to access,or was it the deadly diphtheria?Whatever it was, forsooth,the man, he lost, he lo...

We’re lying in bed together and awake the same time as one another. Lazily and sleepily, our lips lock and we kiss softly. Breaking the kiss, we say “good morning”. Mewing to each other, we hug and hold tight, weaving a spell around each other. Our mornings always start off like this, followed by the natural progression, of course. Though only a fictional fantasy just now, I think I can safely speak for both of us, when I...

A blank page, this isny right,in fact, it's bloody shite!The page should be filled wi' text,a curious mix ae Scottish and English,It's whit a speak and also write. My rhyming, there, jist fell oot,but quick as a flash, I'll right that wrongthen I'll sing a happy wee song.A song aboot rhymin' an' stuff,Scottish an' English, written by a wee scruff.Next line is the last,and with this, the poem is past.

Stormy weather. Nice to be out in. There’s a cyclone on the horizon and it looks pretty. I don’t know why, but I have this strange compulsion to look directly at it. It’s taking houses, trees, everything with it, but I just can’t leave my house to escape it. Something has happened. What’s going on here? Where am I? Wait... I’m inside the cyclone? Really? It’s a funny thing that seems to have happened. One minute I’m stand...

Witches, eh? Those strange folk, running around, worshipping Satan, sacrificing goats, listening to heavy metal, drinking the blood of the virgin and killing without mercy. Boils and pustules, warts and flying broomsticks. Death and chaos, killing everything in their path in a selfish need to exist. I’m a witch.I look quite nice, actually. I get the occasional spot and occasionally eat blood, in the form of black pudding...

Claire sat there with a stunned face on. “Are you sure it’s the same person?” She asked.“Who else would it be?”Just as he was about to put the newspaper down and shout Cynthia, the phone rang.“Hello?” Rufus answered.“Hi, it’s mum. Seen the paper?” “Yeah, what’s with that?”“Well, apparently Steig is running for Mayor.”“Well, fuck,” Rufus exclaimed, then yelped.“Thanks, Cynthia,” Gloria laughed, knowing it was her who smack...

In my entire life, what have I achieved? If I’d achieved something, anything at all, would I be sitting here at (at time of writing, admittedly, I feel shitty.) 4:42 AM writing this? No. I’d be in bed. I’d be sleeping. I might be out with my friends. Friends. Whatever. I’m not the type to have real friends. I have this one I’ve known for nine years. Nine years is nothing to be sneezed at. She is a real friend. If she saw...

That’s not it, she’s not yours.Why? Why isn’t she mine?You shouldn’t chase her, you don’t deserve her.Why?She’s not yours,She’s a kid. A human being.She’s not a kid, She’s a key.Glowing, green, energy ball,Stuffed in a meat wrapperthe one that will end it all,end our sufferingWhy? She was made that way. She’s evil, that key.Shallow cuts, that’s the key to the key,She’ll die, the world will die,We’ll all die. Just for the...

This third person narrative thing. I might as well give it a go. Here we go, then...Fuck that shit. You don’t realise it,But you’re illiterate.Think you’re being astute. You’re being ass toot. Wait, that wasn’t third person, was it? Let me try again...I think and then write,I write that I want you to bite,I wonder if you might...This is shite. Yeah, that wasn’t third person either. Is a third person poem even possible? I’...

I like a guitar that’s all beaten and bruised, road worn, one could say. It adds something to it, to know that it has been loved. I see something as loved if it shows signs of actually being used.A few of my guitars have dings all over the place and people have remarked upon them saying things like “why don’t you get them fixed?” Well, they don’t need fixing. They need playing. The fretboards are usually worn from my into...