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Well Well Well
I have no sense of smellSince I crawled back from hellI don’t know who I wasWhat I wasWhen, where, or whyAll that I know isThere was a hot crimson red skyA bouquet of blood rosesA glowing scarlet seaAnd I was anythingAnything but freeChained and locked in tormentFor plenty a century I was trapped in the
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Grim Weeper
Rip a strip of wet pillow, stick it in an empty beer bottle. Light the end on fire but nothing seems to happen. An allegory of my life, they call me the molotov floptail. As my flame it will not light, inspiration feeling frail. My canvas remains blanc; white. A blend of nought and pale…
McDream's Poetry 