To Whom It May Concern To whom it may concern, That is it; I'm done With coerced festive niceties And commercial Christmas fun For to me Christmas has become coloured now A corporate shade of red, Of green as corporate profits grow, Tradition might as well be dead. As far as I can see and follow, But others vehemently disagree, Christmas has become commercial and hollow, And traditions have been forced to flee When did events like Black Friday start? Whom may they be concerning to? If you take this message to heart, Then we both know it was meant for you.

Novel Rivers of ink cascading by, The high mountains and hills of scripture. Low valleys of fresh paper, dry, Fold into this serene picture. By pen sculpted, intricate, precariously, The writer's world is sharply crafted, A lone stream of ink flows past vigorously, Oblivious to the spring from which it was drafted. Fields of letters, trees of words, This fragile, literary land, With it's written wolves, and it's written herds, Created by a singular hand. Who knew such beauty could be found in writing? Novels really are strange. Perhaps it is of mine just a phase, But it really is rather delighting.

Clear Skies As swift dawn spread its brilliant wings, I lay on the soft, gilded grass; Staring up at clear skies, I watched my fears drift away, Like the slowly fading sunrise. Neither did a single cloud pierce the Azure precipice of heaven, Nor was there any doubt in my mind. Staring into the deep blue, I soon found my resolve; But thunder-tinted clouds came rolling in, The idylls of my daydream cast aside by light rain. The clouds once again quickly broke, And I again found myself face to face, With the hidden depths of emptiness In clear skies.

Axis Of Ignorance Walking about their daily lives, Busying themselves with their daily labour; They break , from sun's set to it's rise, To begin again with newfound fervour. They meander along dusty streets, In dusty cities, grey with #life, They work to make ends meet, Whilst amongst them squalor runs rife. But while they preamble, To reach some predestined place, It really is unbelievable That they remain unaware of the pace; The pace at which the divide begins, To widen further still, Between those who walk and those who watch, And do the sidelines fill. Those who walk, go ignorantly past, Those sitting in need, hoping at last, That someone will cross the line; Save them from the dark; Tilt away from the axis of ignorance, Spinning in every society, in every dusty city, From sunset to sunrise, while the ignorant Continue their present monotony.

Sacrifice If in war I were to die for another; Tear my family and world asunder, Who should be grateful for my last breath One side a child saved, the other, one lost in death? "Dulce et Decorum Est...." so they say in war, But conflict is always born during, or before Anyone would even consider sacrifice; It is a horror wrought by political vice. To think, if politicians could ignite Peace, as they do wars fight? To imagine, that behind their empty verse, They could serve the people's interest first? There is no honour in sacrifice, Not when, for so little gain, We must be forced to pay that price.