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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 09-June 23:18:52 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 149990
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Wake up Call
[time] => 2009-05-18 22:42:43
[hometext] => My first submission.
[bodytext] => So as I rise to the screeching boxes TV to one side alarm to the other I can't help but feel like something is wrong Have I done my part in this world of ours Should I have held on to that God I had when I was little for a little while longer I always question these things through Celexa Through the river's fog A wise man once said A poet has the ability to hold anything in the fog and make it look like a ghost What of the town I once knew The quiet neighborhood racked by hit and runs six vandalism three and justice or equality well As I stand there 3 A.M. watching the fog creep through the cemetery I wonder What would a poet put in this fog Ever since our family plot filled I have been wrecked Just like my cousin's car in West Virginia My left tire one hundred yards down the road my right tire inside the car my engine block in the medial grass and both passengers covered in the quilts they made just two days ago How can I say I can move on How can I say that they would have wanted me to strive harder than ever before I guess If I stand in this fog If I close my eyes If I hold my head tight on my shoulders If I think that they would want me to do this Then as a poet [comments] => 2 [counter] => 148 [topic] => 43 [informant] => AdamLeeds [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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