Mark
Boris Johnson: Cuddly Conservative
Does anyone here enjoy poetry? I do, but I find myself leaning towards odder, more modern poetry than the traditional stuff.
I occasionally write songs and poems, so I've included one here. I don't like to make my poems so cryptic that no-one can interpt anything from them, yet I'm a big fan of wordplay and double meanings. I am terrible at most forms of written English though, so they are written purely to be read aloud. (hence the lack of real formatting)
I stopped writing constantly a year or so ago, so what I write now never really get's finished, and is often rushed.
Anyway.... (The Bold Text is the title btw. long, I know..)
I admire those who don’t have to think; yet I do not think before I act on occasions that
barely leave me intact.
I’d kill to say I act on basic instinct
but even these words left me tired
the next morning-I rose to an empty bed:
I’d slept on the floor again,
the same as the day before.
Empty bottles beside my head’s
shadow shot; a glass stare. (I decided
I wished to have been hit with an Irn-Barr
instead.) I heard a voice “You need to help yourself...
Scratch that. Hang yourself.”
I just ended it: Closed the red silks.
Or rather, I opened them. Teenage Cliché
forever will rule.
I occasionally write songs and poems, so I've included one here. I don't like to make my poems so cryptic that no-one can interpt anything from them, yet I'm a big fan of wordplay and double meanings. I am terrible at most forms of written English though, so they are written purely to be read aloud. (hence the lack of real formatting)
I stopped writing constantly a year or so ago, so what I write now never really get's finished, and is often rushed.
Anyway.... (The Bold Text is the title btw. long, I know..)
I admire those who don’t have to think; yet I do not think before I act on occasions that
barely leave me intact.
I’d kill to say I act on basic instinct
but even these words left me tired
the next morning-I rose to an empty bed:
I’d slept on the floor again,
the same as the day before.
Empty bottles beside my head’s
shadow shot; a glass stare. (I decided
I wished to have been hit with an Irn-Barr
instead.) I heard a voice “You need to help yourself...
Scratch that. Hang yourself.”
I just ended it: Closed the red silks.
Or rather, I opened them. Teenage Cliché
forever will rule.