I wanted to post a poem of mine. Here goes: The grime of past has a habit of setting Max up. He tries to flick off the dust Of what once long should be forgotten As if to alter the black and white and come anew Goes slinging hard and sit afterwards For fortnights but still, the dust comes back Max wakes in the morning And walks the clearer alley of the mind He unknowingly goes down the stairs To depth deeper at nights Pacing slow, one foot after another The further he steps down and down The more the cold and silence make his breathing heavy But all this for naught For something more sinister awaits at the bottom Vivid. A true nightmare.