Late Night Scramble

As you enter my room you notice one thing, it's pitch black but you kind of expect it when its this late at night. I try not to make any noise as I tiptoe across the cold hard floorboards, but I stand on a piece of unforgiving lego left for dead on the floor. It makes me let out a little yell that echoes off the ugly pale white walls. I make it to the soft silky bed barely harmed compared to some nights.

I lay my head down on the spongy green tri pillow and drift off into a light sleep, but that is soon interrupted by the loud vibrating of my phone on the bedside table. I dont want to, but I feel I have to reach over and check the stupid thing. As I do, the sharp light pierces the hanging darkness in my room. I cant see because of the sudden change of lighting, so I flick it off and stare into the thick darkness which leads into a deep sleep.

Simile Poem

As poor as a pig.
As strong as a divorce.
As cute as a kitten.
As smart as a horse.

As thin as a line.
As white as a plane.
As fit as a tiger.
As dumb as a name.

As bald as an old man.
As neat as a switch.
As proud as a mum.
As ugly as a witch.

My Room

The faded paint on my drawers shines in the sun.
Small particles of dust rest on the top.
Clothes lay everywhere, streaked across the floor.
What was once a smooth, brown chair in one corner of the room,
Is now half-submerged in clothes...piles of them.
So is the floor, and my bed.
My pink, flowery, crinkled duvet-cover sways in the summer wind.
The T.V looms over my drawers, like a shadow in a horror film.
The light-tan coloured floor-boards swim in sun-rays,
Gleaming and squeaky.
The wooden door creaks, and moves, like a dance in the night-sky.
The wind changes and the curtains turn tail, and sway in a different direction.
My stained-glass diamonds reflect the sun, and the room is filled with light-
the deepest pinks, and blues, with a few shades of green, yellow and silver.
Trees rustle somewhere outside, and leaves fall to the damp grass below.
The room seems friendly and welcoming to anyone who enters.
The only neat thing in the room is my pillows that lay motionless on my bed.
A sturdy electric-guitar hides down next to my drawers.
My little bookshelf limply sits next to my bed.
A blackish-grey laptop lies unopened on the top.
A few books and CD’s hide in one of the compartments.
My room seems lonely and wants company.
The door sighs, and slowly, it closes.
Because of that, my room remains a mystery.



By Bethany

wordle

visit http://www.wordle.net/create to make your own "wordles" this is great if you are creating a poem or piece of descriptive writing.

This is my quatrain poem on caged pig farming.

It’s terrible being farmed
Your always getting harmed,
The flickering old lamp
Illuminates the damp.

My feet are always filled of pain
Cause they feed us full of grain,
To make us big, fat and round
To a horrible death we are bound.

The shallow farmer doesn’t care
Because he doesn’t live in here,
We will soon be killed for bacon
For the money he’ll be maken.

For goodness sake I’m a pig
I’m made to roam and dig,
For its sun I want to see,
So someone please set me free.

Caterpillar

Caterpillar, caterpillar,
Eat, eat, eat
Moving around on your tiny little feet.
Patiently wait and a change comes ‘round
Now you’re hanging upside down!
Spinning yourself a beautiful cocoon
You will be a butterfly soon...