Purely for Entertainment

For pure entertainment:

(Written in Class, or, more exactly, just after class.)

Oh, there once was a man named Stan.
Who lived in a rusty old van.
He hit his head, and now he's dead.
The end of an unknown man.

(Written now so the above catastrophe won't feel so lonely)

Poems are words made hearts.
Poems are emotions made flesh.
Poems think and feel as people do
Get lonely sometimes. Poems do.

(To add to the rapidly growing cesspool of literary incapability.)

Voices behind speak with unknown words
as the cue ball strikes eight,
Fingers strike keys. "Where am I?"
Voices beside speak with unknown words
clouded with thick cigarette smoke.
Fingers strike keys. "Where am I?"
Voices above speak with unknown words
Muffled by shuffling, sliding chairs.
Fingers strike keys. "Where am I?"
Voices in front speak with known words
Unknown clarity shatters a self.
So fingers strike keys. "Who am I?"

(This next on I'm actually rather proud of. Seriously.)

Roses are read.
Violence is blue.
Form is a prison.
But what else is new?

(I'll let you in on a secret. I said I was proud of the above poem BEFORE I wrote it.)