Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389035" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Broom In My Hands</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389035" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">we walk the edge of suicidal silence, <br>sweeping shadows beneath curtains<br>with brooms made of straw.<br>while somewhere soupbones<br>boil in the pot, <br>and the sound of coffee making<br>startles children's trains on tiny tracks..<br>the heroin news grates against the mind, <br>and dogs wait in silent anticipation.<br>Jesus dies again, a matinee, <br>the Bill Of Rights stutters<br>neath a thin layer of dirt.<br>travelling shoe salesmen grope lady's legs, <br>and old men on park benches<br>peer over bifocals.<br>the woman ironing, in her bra and panties, <br>quietly curses, with trembling hands! <br>bare chested men split wood in the sun, <br>while boys tinker on cars with oily hearts.<br>the soldier returned home to no home, <br>hangs himself from the rafters.<br>a picture of his baby boy, <br>falls from his pockets.<br>crows gather on a wooden fence rail, <br>the young woman lights a crack pipe, <br>staring at naked walls.<br>while dead bodies march in lines that rhyme, <br>with buildings left empty, <br>and mailboxes spilling over.<br>the soft silk of the thigh, <br>and the lip turned up...<br>names whispered and lost, <br>small rooms speak of distance.<br>be it love, be it madness, <br>the clock falls from the wall.<br>and nothing feels real....<br>except the broom in my hands!</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Eric+Cockrell">Eric Cockrell</a></strong></div>