I write poetry whenever I feel like it.
Here's an example:
White Hills
As I walk into a garden
On a Saturday morning
I view the green all around
This wet dreaming lush
I held a rose with my right hand
I started bleeding to death
The rose had a thorn
Why do roses have thorns?
To hurt or to scar,
The roses grow far
This beautiful pain
In the white hills
White hills, well…
More like white pills
To soothe the pain
Of the hemorrhage
So winter comes, the storms arise, and I pretend that there’s nothing wrong
But I’m bleeding to death with one bare hand on my list of repairing
And into the night
We’re taking a token
And in the light
The dance floor’s mine
And tonight, under the tree
I’ll sleep in my dreams
Come to this garden
The garden with spots of blood
These are white hills
Blanc hills
Blanche hills
Bianco hills
White pills
These aren’t white hills anymore
They’re red hills, because of my hemorrhaging