

Charcoal PoemsHacky poems written in doodle-filled sketch pads; Charcoal running accross the off-white paper, And slowly blackening warm hands.Charcoal Poems
Warm hands Slowly growing colder as she gets older, Swiftly getting blacker as the poems get hackier, Forming calouses where the stick is clenched.
Shades of grey Where cooling hands touch wet paper With darkened hair where head didn't meet table.
"Turn on a heater", People tell her; She just laughes.
Truth be told, She kinda likes the cold (In a twisted sort of way).
--
A kid walks into a jail.
Says the kid, Give me two paintings please.
Says the guy behind the counter, I don't work here.
Says the kid, Oh, thats fine, Im Canadian.
--
A kid walks into a jail.
Says the kid, Give me two paintings please.
Says the guy behind the counter, I don't work here.
Says the kid, Oh, thats fine, Im Canadian.
--
A kid walks into a jail.
Says the kid, Give me two paintings please.
Says the guy behind the counter, I don't work here.
Says the kid, Oh, thats fine, Im Canadian.
--
Two people can look at the same thing and each see something completely different.
--
Two people can look at the same thing and each see something completely different.
--
Two people can look at the same thing and each see something completely different.
--
A kid walks into a jail.
Says the kid, Give me two paintings please.
Says the guy behind the counter, I don't work here.
Says the kid, Oh, thats fine, Im Canadian.
--
Two people can look at the same thing and each see something completely different.
--
A kid walks into a jail.
Says the kid, Give me two paintings please.
Says the guy behind the counter, I don't work here.
Says the kid, Oh, thats fine, Im Canadian.
--
Two people can look at the same thing and each see something completely different.
Previous Page12345...Next Page