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So...yeah. I wrote a poem or...three or something. And almost all the words begin with the same letter or sound...they're sort of surreal and s**t. Oh well. Here you are:

Cacophonic caretakers of cruelties past,
Commanding commandments of clandestine affairs,
For you cannot change what you cannot kill.
Cheer up, cannibalistic critics,
The criminal's connection is claustrophobic in its tendencies.
Consorts to the calamities of cutting crocodile tears
Shed only by certain coaxing contradictions.
You can call them children,
But condemn them to constricting clairvoyances of crooning comprehensions
That cradle contented cowering contrabands
Of charades and contrabands conquered long ago.
Confide in the confident crazy Cain
Who chisels away at censured cunning crosses,
Curiously curling in on closed-off consternations.
Like Caeser, he came and he saw
But conquered not,
Crashing only into closeted consciences
Caving in on complete castles like all good cavaliers of concupiscence controlled.
I carry in crimson-clad confidants,
The consequence of our clumsy claims.

That was C. Obviously. This is S...and a total b***h to read out loud.

Sudden saviors see the sorrow on every son and daughter,
Static saga of sordid strangers past streak by into nothing.
I subdue the scene with a spell of sunrise,
Screaming of sheer stark lullabies sung only in shadows.
She staggers across badly stitched sympathies,
Sobbing, shouting, singing as only saints can.
Schizoid scholars in the school of subconscious searing sunshine
Succumb to stressful, shameful summers spent scratching out sin.
Sage advice from sudden spiritual sublime stanzas
Searching, lurking in shadows for supreme sweet surrenders,
Seeing nothing but spinning psychotic celebrations
And smiling, savage celebrities of spiteful stages
Dedicated to centuries of shameful discord.
Stab your subjects with your starry-eyed sceptre of starving self-loathing
As slithering smooth snakes of subtle slaughter,
Sleek like strangers in season,
See only subliminal psychology switching sides to spare the parts.
I scoff at their sleeping sovereigns,
They scarcely scrape by,
Shaking, shivering, shuddering, sure of something belonging to nothing.
Staring into stars of seances past,
I smirk in time to singing suns burned out bright,
Stoic to all who see,
Silently, slowly stabbing serial thoughts within.
Selling this song to the highest bidder,
Storing stranger thoughts for snow days nonexistent,
I spen into spaceous nothing and hope for spanless somewheres
And I am scared.

And...yeah. More writings to come. Since that's what I do. Write. Sometimes. I did a grown-up finger paint thing last night using acrylic paints...and it's really weird looking. I dunno.