Scriblings at 4:47
The bed's cold
The bed is always cold.
The bed has always been cold for an eternity.
Winter is cold
Winter is alway's cold
No matter what year, there's always winter.
The bed's cold,
the heating blanket isn't enough
life is unusually cold.
a liquid nitrogen of cold.
Ready to shatter into a million snowflakes.
Snowflakes are underestimated.
the bed's cold.
The are nothing one at a time,
but together they kill.
One snowflake can turn into an avalanche.
The bed's cold, life's cold.
The poor bums outside, fighting snowflakes
one at a time.
Both their life and bed's cold.
The cement is frigid.
Hopelessness is futile, it won't get you warm.
Only liquid fire to fight with,
and unlit cigars, no lights. Just a drop of liquid fire.
One snowflake into an avalanche,
Learn to hibernate through winters, or starve.
When things are summery.
Star collecting acorns....
Pessimism is best, your always prepared of winter.
The bed's cold.
The bed was cold, now it's emotionally chilly.
The winter has just started.
It will indulge it's hungry appetite for bum children and emotionally chillybeds.
an ongoing monster
The winter eats you. The winter inside feed's itself.
Late nights and cold beds shouldn't mix,....oil and water.
However hopelessly cold beds make good poetry.
Cold beds make frigid poetry, a winter of words,
and blankets aren't enough.
Writing style inspired by the j beck. Subject matter inspired by Thoma's Blake
By Thomas Blake
O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast thou built they
Deep-founded Habitation. Shake not thy roofs,
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep
Rides heave; his storms are unchain'd, sheathed
In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes,
For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.
Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings
To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning
He withers all in silence, and his hand
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail lie.