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Some critics say I compose good poems, Others regard my work as nonsense My poems can interest or bore you It depends on how you view the words I write about the past and the present
This here, in my hands, is nothing more than an hour glass. Time paves each grain of sand and marks the hours pass. As each grain stumbles through a maze of consciousness, It begins to identify itself with the others.
If I were to whisper into the depths of the deepest soul, Would my voice be heard? Should I venture into the darkest crevice of human spirit, Would I be lost?
My dad's an alcoholic, so naturally, I've always been afraid of him drinking and driving. Sources say that ever 53 minutes, someone die from a drunk driving accident. My dad could easily have been one.
Picking up the bottle The stinging taste Burning you're throat You feel the heavy liquid Rolling over your tongue You roll the joint next to you You light it up and take a puff Coughing uncontrollably from the toxins Your friends keep telling you
She led the mortal lifestyle trying to know what's cool Carrying feelings of littleness she learned from school She packed her bags and mapped out all her goals and moves Now she's living in the bath house; her whole soul consumed
I put down the glass and drew back fast, but on the counter it would not stay for all i know, with one more swallow all my problems could fade away. staring in the morrow above the bathroom sink
Stop, Constant struggle to ignore the harsh words, drama and hate fill the halls,