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.
I have raised over $300 participating in quilting bees for the American Quilting Bee Society so I think I deserve at least seven minutes of your time.
Ernest Cline, writer of Ready Player One, shares his newest poem.
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