November
January 2009
A song I've heard often said, that all good things come to an end. Now that it has, I lie in bed. Waiting for my wounds to mend. But soon after the end comes the start, As soon as one mends the broke
Is it wrong to be right while writing of a wrong. Is it better to fight, or to just go along. To give into the fright, and to try to belong. To give the world a sight and write to right a wrong.
Poetry's naught but a play of words, but when used well can well move a soul. So to move a soul and with words play is another way to spend your day. You may wonder now what this makes me, to be or n
Living in democracy, but in all reality the home is a tyranny. My father's autocracy proven kakistocracy. What does it all mean to me, I'm not not what I ought to be, I have hope and dreams you see,
All that is percieved, is not to be believed. For one's senses decieve, the mind from revealing the reality of me. I am not who you see, nor is it within my ability. Your thoughts will flee, when not
A splintered mind and a shattered soul. A complete man with a gaping hole. A typical story to tell left better untold. A man's goals and dreams left cold. A splintered mind brings personal duality. A
why give a shit, when shit is all your given. why bother to live, when your not sure you're livin. why bother another day, when you just look away, when you don't have the guts to say, it's not meant
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