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| >> Static Item >> Poetry >> Experience >> ID #1489664 |   |
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I don't feel like poetry,
I don't write when I'm wrong, I can't fake my way through the most ancient of songs. When the Winter Solstice sets, I'm the first that always forgets, what it means to be a man. How do I how when I don't know how? Why do I why and then wonder why? All I have left is a bright light in the sky. But it shines from the inside, and it's enough.
© Copyright 2008 horace (UN: horace1031 at Writing.Com).
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