One day,
A scientist,
Will enter the fray,

And with an iron fist,
A weapon,
Of massive power,

Will break out upon,
The simple flower,
And the world as we know it will end.



Sitting alone in a crappy Manchester bedsit:

He sorts his odd socks,
He builds his own Fort Knox,
Cans clutter his room,
No one knows but they all assume.

He plays on his Xbox,
He doesn’t bother with the locks,
Playing games like Doom,
No one knows but they all assume.

Nobody ever knocks,
No one thinks he rocks,

Rope hangs from the moon,
The skylight twinkles with delight,
This evil room will take another life tonight.

The Promise of a Writer

I promise something I already do,

To every day, write something new,

To please you, and appease you,

With ink of sorrow, joy, and rage,

I will project my soul onto every page.


I promise to empty myself,

To put a book upon your shelf,

If you’ll have it, fill yourself,

I hope you find my sorrow, joy, and rage,

I hope you sense my soul in every page.