Heat
It's hot.
Can't find a spot.
A spot to get a cool breeze.
Where I can get off my feet, hell I'll kneel on my knee's.
It's hot as hell.
Do you feel it. Can you tell?
Wait, here relief!
A block of ice, to rest on mty teeth.
Damm that feels good.
I knew it would and so it should.
Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
Unknown Source
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| Peace of Mind | 0 | 06/10/2009 |
| Heat | 0 | 06/08/2009 |
| Imagination of Ones Image | 0 | 06/04/2009 |
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