Island of Broken Toys, submitted by grzydj. Thank god that there are talented writers out there willing to explore the darkest reaches of the human spirit, because if there weren't we wouldn't have poems like this:
Throughout the black ocean
Of my heart,
Below my breast.
One bites my flesh
And blood trickles down
onto the bed,
Where the pink razor
Your beating heart
Is nowhere near.
And my how dreadful a world that would be! If you've been searching for a wealth of quality artistic expression such as this, then you've found your proverbial pay dirt, Sgt. Sorrow! There is enough doom and gloom here to fill at least three American McGee games and still have enough scrap left over to fill a Marilyn Manson double album and a half dozen teen suicide notes. These are young poets at their finest: fragile, broken, and tainted by the disease we commonly refer to as society. I needn't remind you that this is the very same society that shackles them with its false smile and pristine lies and acts as a drug for the braindead masses. Actually, come to think about it, these kids are just a bunch of goofy fags.
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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