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Literature Text
All alone now,
He begins his piece
An ode to those
Who could not appreicate
His ample art
With a strong steel gaze
He surveys
His tools of trade
Brushes and knives
Scissors and paint
Red and running
He used to decorate
The Children's home
Thick red lines
On the walls
Drip down slowly
To flood the halls
Sweet smelling carpets
Dark stained and soaked
Remind him of
His works of love
Children he showed
The magic of art
But they would go
To forget his show
He tried to prove
The worth of art
But he could not move
Their cold, cold hearts
They just could not
Really see
What he could do
Or hear his pleas
So now he will
Let them see
The real art attack
Finally their blood
The floors will flood
Where their bodies
Line the walls
To be burned
In gasoline-ed halls
He begins his piece
An ode to those
Who could not appreicate
His ample art
With a strong steel gaze
He surveys
His tools of trade
Brushes and knives
Scissors and paint
Red and running
He used to decorate
The Children's home
Thick red lines
On the walls
Drip down slowly
To flood the halls
Sweet smelling carpets
Dark stained and soaked
Remind him of
His works of love
Children he showed
The magic of art
But they would go
To forget his show
He tried to prove
The worth of art
But he could not move
Their cold, cold hearts
They just could not
Really see
What he could do
Or hear his pleas
So now he will
Let them see
The real art attack
Finally their blood
The floors will flood
Where their bodies
Line the walls
To be burned
In gasoline-ed halls
Literature
The Doctors In
"He's probably dead," Roger exclaimed as the two kittens giggled mischievously behind him.
Krystal and Amanda had arrived at Coleman Park appropriately attired for the evening. Their previously decided-upon costumes seemed much sexier in person than when Roger was helping them choose outfits at Wal-Mart. Being the edgy person that he was, he had politely declined their offer of buying a disguise for him. He had never celebrated the holiday, and instead purchased a t-shirt that furthered his rebelliousness with bright yellow text that read, 'I don't do costumes.'
His head down and his hands in his pockets, he paced himself up the paved hill
Literature
Where the Brookside Ends ch. 1
do you know where the sand in an hour glass comes from? Or why most of your dreams are continuation of dreams that you either have had and don't remember or simply have not had yet.have you ever broken someones heart not once but twice, or more. and didn't bat an eyelash? any such manner of various thoughts as you lie awake in bed ,or in your somber solace whether it be on the road on your way to work,or in the shower in the morning,, mabye even during the news, or while you text/call the one person you love.
A Tasty Soliloquy,
"Have you ever had the dream where you were falling? Its theorized that when
Literature
Based on a True Story
There are no such things as heroes or villains in this world, his father had once told him. Just people. Tony realises this is true as he watches the smoke, watches as it rises upon its haunches like some terrible thing about to swallow him whole, watches as it rubs its grey-wolf muzzle against the windowpane.
Spidey isn’t going to come crashing through that glass to save him. Superman isn’t going to appear either, blowing out the flames as if they were nothing more than candles on a birthday cake.
His heroes don’t exist anymore; they’ve died in his head.
No, if Tony wants to escape—if he wants to fucking live
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Ok. This is a sort of weird, non traditional poem. It references the show "Art Attack." Please comment and tell me what you think.
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I like this one