Creativity hits me at the most unwanted times. More so when I am tired and have to stay awake. Maybe that's a cure for writers block? Either way this is the first 'poem' I've ever written. It's not about grammar or stanzas or any of that. Have at it.
He swung about his battered plank,
furious at the world.
Atop the pyre he screamed
“None of this is real,
If it was we would feel it,”
He was frail and tattooed,
A product of lost hope,
Or crushed beneath their egos,
Blood stained and flame licked,
He jumped from his perch,
Without a look he left the town,
That was the last we heard of him,
until today.
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