The wage of sin is Death
I stand before you now and slowly take my last breath.
Silently hoping that my demons are finally at rest.
darkness plays games and tap dances on my chest.
And once again I am completely gripped with fear,
and on my face you will find a single tear.
That is all I have to say.
Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.
T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| DONE | 2 | 07/08/2009 |
| My 21 Questions 4 U | 1 | 07/08/2009 |
| I write | 0 | 07/08/2009 |
| There comes a point | 1 | 07/08/2009 |
| open | 0 | 07/08/2009 |
| Poetic Destruction | 0 | 07/08/2009 |
| Lost | 0 | 07/08/2009 |
| My Reality | 0 | 07/08/2009 |
| The wage of sin is Death | 0 | 07/08/2009 |
| I | 1 | 07/08/2009 |
| What it isn't | 0 | 07/08/2009 |
| Time | 0 | 07/07/2009 |
| Pain | 1 | 07/07/2009 |
| Wanting | 0 | 07/07/2009 |
| Goodbye | 1 | 07/07/2009 |
| Alone | 1 | 07/07/2009 |
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