Asylum of toil i am trapped
sadness' blanket i am wrapped
deliberate delay of sleep
the poor man's coffee i sip
Radio hiss a static song
makes sound sleep but not for long
Tendered backs from soggy foams
and i again deprived of home
A sore prize for an unpaid debt
sometimes judged and named of theft
blood is none compared to cash
a small scratch can turn to gash
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Wounds do talk
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3 Angelic comments:
The poem will talk for itself for you. Of what i have become.
Ooh.
Well, you have become even more well versed. I can tell you that :D.
oh !
thank you noah.... ~_^
have a nice day
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