Citatepedia^®.com

Every writer has to find their own way into writing.

quote by Margaret Mahy
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Paperback Writer

(LennonMcCartney)
Paperback writer
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand
His son is working for the Daily Mail
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few
I'll be writing more in a week or two
I can make it longer if you like the style
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
If you really like it you can have the rights
It could make a million for you overnight
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer (fade out)

song performed by Paul McCartney
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Truth and the Devil

The devil unstoppably took pride in salaciously writing; the book of
obnoxious caste-creed and venomously penalizing hatred,

The devil unstoppably took pride in acrimoniously writing; the book of
indiscriminate bloodshed and disastrously traumatizing ruthlessness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in vengefully writing; the book of
tyrannical devastation and lecherously bellicose orphaning,

The devil unstoppably took pride in fretfully writing; the book of
vindictive war and satanically criminal holocausts,

The devil unstoppably took pride in maliciously writing; the book of
coldblooded barbarism and manipulatively bizarre malice,

The devil unstoppably took pride in forlornly writing; the book of
worthless
ghosts and mortuaries brutally anointed with fresh blood,

T The devil unstoppably took pride in indigently writing; the book of
nonchalant spuriousness and fecklessly insipid meaninglessness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in torturously writing; the book of
ominous
animosity and hedonistically pugnacious illwill,

The devil unstoppably took pride in dictatorially writing; the book of
licentious bawdiness and insanely threadbare nothingness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in heinously writing; the book of
lascivious poverty and baselessly crippling uncertainty,

The devil unstoppably took pride in savagely writing; the book of
despicable
defeat and lethally ballistic atrociousness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in raunchily writing; the book of
dolorous
delinquency and insidiously slandering betrayal,

The devil unstoppably took pride in preposterously writing; the book of
scurrilous lunatism and barbarously incarcerating fiendishness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in frigidly writing; the book of
jejune
mockery and impudently castigating brazenness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in heartlessly writing; the book of
ghastly
bloodshed and indefatigably bombarding politics,

[...] Read more

poem by Nikhil Parekh
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

When I wasn't breathing

When I wasn’t blissfully snoring; I was still inexhaustibly writing a
cistern of stupendously rhapsodic and gloriously majestic Immortal Love
Poetry,

When I wasn’t unsurpassably fantasizing; I was still inexhaustibly
writing a
garden of ingeniously magical and miraculously mitigating Immortal Love
Poetry,

When I wasn’t superbly adventuring; I was still inexhaustibly writing
an
ocean of bountifully resplendent and timelessly undefeated Immortal
Love
Poetry,

When I wasn’t scrumptiously relishing; I was still inexhaustibly
writing a
playground of optimistically enlightening and unbelievably royal
Immortal
Love Poetry,

When I wasn’t limitlessly triumphing; I was still inexhaustibly writing
a
cascade of beautifully panoramic and effulgently liberating Immortal
Love
Poetry,

When I wasn’t pricelessly smiling; I was still inexhaustibly writing a
lantern of unendingly vibrant and inscrutably tantalizing Immortal Love
Poetry,

When I wasn’t gloriously partying; I was still inexhaustibly writing a
paradise of eternally vivacious and pristinely redolent Immortal Love
Poetry,

When I wasn’t unassailably inspiring; I was still inexhaustibly writing
a
festoon of incredulously ameliorating and perpetually compassionate
Immortal
Love Poetry,

When I wasn’t magnanimously feasting; I was still inexhaustibly writing
a
cocoon of symbiotically philanthropic and ubiquitously coalescing
Immortal
Love Poetry,

When I wasn’t ebulliently fornicating; I was still inexhaustibly
writing a
mist of wonderfully reinvigorating and blessedly burgeoning Immortal

[...] Read more

poem by Nikhil Parekh
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Writing To

Writing to feel
Writing to heal
Writing to steal
Writing every emotion..
With such a white background.
It makes no sound
Even as the keys I pound.
Let my words have bite
Let from my words drip out meanings beyond meanings
Its something I try to be constantly be achieving.

Writing to feel
Writing to heal
Writing to steal
I want every heart and mind
Sucked in cause this is my world stage
No sense of the time.
Never to turn the page
Stuck in to a world oh so oh so fine

Writing to feel
Writing to heal
Writing to steal
Listen to her melody, as she sings.
Let chaos reign down from the skies
What will this day really bring?
Will the letter say good bye?
Will it mend everything?

Making everything better.
Destroying all the consequences
That exist in your world.
Welcome to the place I visit daily.
Inspirational maddness,
It attacks, attacks, and attacks.
With perfect sadness
I must let go once more.
And then the words hit the floor

Writing to feel
Writing to heal.
Writing to steal.
Becoming one with my soul.
Fighting for its one and only control.
Its mine, Its mine. Its mine.
In this reality it subsequently is not
A constant questioning of what?

Writing to feel
Writing to heal.

[...] Read more

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Something

I'm writing in hope for something with sweet melody,
A rhythm that can be felt,
A beauty that can be read.
With words flowing like water over rocks,
Steadily without fault or obstruction.
A liquid in its purest state.

I'm writing in hope for something with sweet remembrance,
Like the scent of falling rain,
Or the memorable sound of a mothers cooing voice.
Something so memorable,
The slightest reminder sends you back to the exact moment,
Replaying in unbroken pattern of mind.

I'm writing in hope for something spectacular to happen,
For my words to form a feeling so deep they hurt,
For each image to be as clear as these words on this paper.
I want you to feel what I feel,
A feeling of lonely discontent,
Sitting alone in my own my own world, writing away.

I am writing this in hope for something to stick with you,
A message or a meaning that I've hidden inside a syllable,
A voice of reason that you have kept from yourself,
Silenced with the voice of your shallow desires.
A dream that you once had forgotten,
Lost in the darkness of the night.

I am writing this in hope for something to be brought to light.
Maybe a buried thought that you wish you never had,
Or an inner conflict that you hadn't noticed but feel tearing apart your skin,
Even an aspiration you promised to live up to but left to die.
Something so lost in the world of your mind,
Swallowed by deep chasms of thought and memory.

I am writing this in hope of telling a story.
The story of a world that can only be imagined in a dark room,
Hidden from the world and apart from anything else.
The story of a broken heart of a shortened life,
The story of the silent cries of a lost soul reaching for sanity.
My own story, perhaps, or even yours, is this your story?

I am writing in hope of making your thoughts and feelings dance,
A slow and steady music in the background,
Propelling your eyes left to right and back again.
Following the steps of each word,
The flow off each line and stanza.
An endless waltz with the reader and the writer, will you dance with me?

I am writing in hope of making an impression on your mind,

[...] Read more

poem by Bethany Maxwell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Whos Been Writing On The Wall Again

Someone keeps on telling me how much he loves me so
Writes it on the wall outside so I will always know
Whos been writing on the wall again
Whos been writing on the wall again
Whos been writing on the wall again
Lori, I love you , lori, I love you
Evry evening I come home , its waiting there for me
Three little words, one little voice , someone I cant see
Whos been writing on the wall again
Whos been writing on the wall again
Whos been writing on the wall again
Lori , I love you , lori , I love you
Is he tall or is he small
I wonder what his game is
I wish hes write it on the wall
And tell me what his name is
I dont know if his hair is blonde or if his eyes are blue
But I know that when I meet him ,Im gonna love him too
Whos been writing on the wall again
Whos been writing on the wall again
Whos been writing on the wall again
Lori , I love you , lori , I love you
Is he tall or is he small
I wonder what his game is
I wish hed write it on the wall
And tell me what his name is
I dont know if his hair is blonde or if his eyes are blue
But I know that when meet him , Im gonna love him too
Whos been writing on the wall again
Whos been writing on the wall again
Whos been writing on the wall again
Lori , I love you , lori , I love you
Whos been writing on the wall again
Whos been writing on the wall again (fade)

song performed by Bee Gees
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Writer's Dream

A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, its people cold—yet the world was dear to him;—
So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,
In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.
And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,
And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;
There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,
And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.
The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free—
For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.

And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.
And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn.

‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:
‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;
‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall,
‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.
‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee—
‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’

The lines ran on as he dipped his pen—ran true to his heart and ear—
Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.
The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light—
He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.
And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:
‘’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book you’ll read!’ he cried.

He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)
From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.
What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?
But the local spirit intensified—with its pitiful shams—was there;
There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)
They hated each other as women could—but they hated the stranger most.

The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate—
‘I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.
‘’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride—
(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)—
‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,’
But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last.

The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,
His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Writing On The Wall

Words and music by rick nielsen
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
Lo and behold, heard it on the radio.
It was a long time comin, but it sounds so sweet, come on, man, get off my back.
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
In the midwest and in the east.
Canada, southwest, around the world,
L.a., tokyo, sounds so sweet,
Come on honey, get on your feet.
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
The words were oh, so...
The words were oh, so clear.
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
Lo and behold, heard it on the radio.
It was a long time comin, but it sounds so sweet, come on, man, get off my back.
Saw it at the airport, it was on t.v.
Read it in a magazine, runnin down the street.
Makes no sense, but I hope its gonna last,
The next big thing, I really gotta laugh.
Worked and slaved and played like hell,
Everybodys goin crazy, youre the last to know.
Cant explain it, still a joke to me,
Maybe Im naive, cause its so plain to see.
Its right in front of your face, man.
Its right in front of your face, man.
Played like hell, whoa!
Played like hell, whoa!

song performed by Cheap Trick
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Where The River Flows

Music : rudolf schenker
Lyrics: klaus meine
Under suburban skies
Where life is bleeding
Where concrete skies are grey
Theres plenty of room for dreaming
I still keep coming here
Follow those traces
I travel back in time
Remember all those places
Feels like I never left
The houses still standing
Down by the river where
The dreams are never ending
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows
Under the silent moon
This industrial city
Is heartland even though
Lifes been not that pretty
I still keep coming here
To that old river
To find my roots just where
The future lives forever
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me, you can find me
By the river where dreams will never die
By the river under suburban skies
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows
By the river where dreams have never died
By the river I look through childrens eyes
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows

[...] Read more

song performed by Scorpions
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I Come Alive In Writing

I come alive in writing
Even if the writing means nothing to anyone else-
I come alive in writing
Even if I am totally deluding myself as to its value-
I come alive in writing
Even if at times while writing there is an underlying hopelessness and despair -

I come alive in writing
As if writing is what God has given me to do-
I come alive in writing
As if through it I can truly give to and help others-
I come alive in writing
As if life has meaning through it-

I come alive in writing
Even when I sense the writing is not good or great
As I would wish it to be.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Lady Writer

Lady writer on the tv
Talk about the virgin mary
Reminded me of you
Expectation left to come up to yeah
Lady writer on the tv
She had another quality
The way you used to look
And I know you never read a book
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time, another place
Lady writer on the tv
She had all the brains and the beauty
The pictures does not fit
Youd talk to me when you felt like it
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time another place
Yes and your rich old man,
You know hed a call her a dead ringer
You got the same command
Plus your mother was a jazz singer
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time another place
Lady writer on the tv
She knew all about a history
You couldnt hardly write your name
I think I want it just the same as the ...
Lady writer on the tv
Talking about the virgin mary
You know Im talking about you and me
And the lady writer on the tv
Talking about the virgin mary
Yeah you know Im talking about you and me
And the lady writer on the tv

song performed by Dire Straits
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Writer- a must?

Out of what does a writer write?
Out of hatred or perversion;
Out of denial or deprivation.

Why does a writer write?
To vent his anger or hatred.
To cry out from pain or lust.

How does a writer write?
By borrowing or distorting.
By modeling or duping.

For what does a writer write?
For an applause and a place.
It alone suits him, an idler.

What is the use of a writer?
For him to flaunt his skill.
For readers to idle away

Does the society need a writer?
Does a woman need cosmetics?
Writer is a part of civilization
16.05.2007.

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Find Your Way Back

You know its been a long long road
Since I packed up and left on my own
And I can carry a heavy load
Just try n get back to her heart
I sure aint got no home
I seem to find love where I ramble
And when its time to go
I hear that voice again, say n
Chorus:
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
Leave a message with the rain
You can find me where the wind blows
The snow across the pain
And the frost upon the heart
You got no place to be
Still you wonder where youre goin
And why I had to leave
I hear a voice and it says to me
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
To her heart, cmon
I know its too late now
But I wish I could go back in time
And start all over somehow
And get it right from the start
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
Find your way back (find your way back) find your way back
Find your way back (find your way back) find your way back
Find your way back (find your way back) find your way back
Find your way back (find your way back) find your way back...

song performed by Starship
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Find Your Way Back

You know its been a long long road
Since I packed up and left on my own
And I can carry a heavy load
Just try n get back to her heart
I sure aint got no home
I seem to find love where I ramble
And when its time to go
I hear that voice again, say n
Chorus:
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
Leave a message with the rain
You can find me where the wind blows
The snow across the pain
And the frost upon the heart
You got no place to be
Still you wonder where youre goin
And why I had to leave
I hear a voice and it says to me
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
To her heart, cmon
I know its too late now
But I wish I could go back in time
And start all over somehow
And get it right from the start
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
Find your way back
Find your way back to her heart
Find your way back (find your way back) find your way back
Find your way back (find your way back) find your way back
Find your way back (find your way back) find your way back
Find your way back (find your way back) find your way back...

song performed by Starship
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Writing The Words

I’m writing this at your funeral.
As I watch all the people in tears.
I wish I could join them,
But I know I have to be strong.

I’m writing this on my hand,
No paper to get it down on.
I want to remember your funeral,
So I’m writing this to honour you.

I’m writing the thoughts that pop into my head,
Making sure they are only the best.
I have to remember,
Because I couldn’t live with myself if I ever forgot.

I’m writing this at your funeral,
As people dropp flowers onto your coffin.
I stand up to dropp my own,
Blue, unlike the others, because I know it’s your favourite.

I’m writing this through the ceremony,
Because if I listen to the words I’ll cry.
And I know I can’t, for you,
I have to keep it together.

I’m writing the words I want to say,
To make people remember how much love you gave.
Because I want them to know,
How much of it you gave to me.

So, I’m writing this at your funeral,
To stop myself from shedding a tear.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
So that I never ever forget you.

poem by Rachel Brewer
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Writer's Ink

I am the writer's ink,
So just write with me without any fear;
I will move more than expected,
I will write more than expected,
I am the writer's ink.
Use me slowly or even faster,
I will talk more than expected;
I do have the message to teach everyone.
Of the beauty of communication,
I am used by everyone;
I am the writer's ink,
I do make people sad or glad;
My ink makes rulers sad,
My ink makes personalities sad,
My ink makes the common man sad,
The way i am used matters.
I am the writer's ink,
I am not expensive;
Buy me and use me always.
How can a country like Ghana be poor? !
Ghana has gold, oil, cocoa and timber;
There are also diamond, bauxite and other minerals;
How then can Ghana be poor? !
The writer's ink should tell us more.
Mismanagement is the food in the country,
Ghana has really more than it needs;
This country shouldn't be poor.
What the leaders say on air is not,
What we see on the ground;
I am the talkative ready to talk.
I am the writer's ink,
I will always speak the truth!

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

A Writer's Dream

A writer's dream
You keep trying
Never denying to one day achieve
Despite what most believe

A writer's dream
You never give up
Regardless of what others may say
But wait patiently until that day

A writer's dream
Although it's been a while
It made you smile
To see your dream coming through

No matter how long it seemed to you
A writer's dream
You always believed in yourself
That's why your time has come

To be a successful writer
With the privilege of making much income
A writer's dream
You're happy to finally get this far

The world knows just who you are
Now this new sudden fame
Makes you feel like a star

poem by Donielle Smith
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

An African writer

I am an african writer
with the melodious lyric
flowing rivers of endless music
with words filled banks
of rhythmic juice

I am an african writer
the flower with the sweetest nectar
colourful juices of flowing oceans
oceans of endless streams

I am an african writer
dwelling by the shrine
in earnest worship to the gods of poetry
invoking my elders before me
warlord of the verbal war

I am an african writer
born with a pot of words
Caressed with the river of the niger
And burnt with the power of endless chatter

I am an african writer
With dead digits and ancient inks
Torn sheets with flee bugs
bestow to a journey of endless music
And beautiful heritage

I am an african writer!
Forged with letters and blood of lines
Strange eyes to a stories side
And rewarded with the gift of true sight!

poem by Venessa Ambrose
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Love A Mortal Who Writes

This be a farce dictation.
But then,
Love a being who writes

Because a writer
Is a liar.

I will lie about how the
Night flames with the warm waters
But you will never believe me
For I am a liar
With a pen and a paper.

Love a writer
For a writer is a soldier
Regardless of state:
A drunken soldier.
An arrogant soldier.
A morose soldier.
A burning soldier.
Whichever.

Love him
For he is a liar.

He is a prolix garden
Of petty things.
He makes the moon an empire,
And the Sun, an asylum.

He will lie about certain things
With sheer beauty
That none of you
Can contain.

Why love a liar, you might ask?
Listen to a painter as he lies
And he will guise himself with
A shallow palette of colors.
Listen to a businessman lie,
And he will be easily defeated
In a warfare of witticism.
Listen to a doctor lie
But then again, science cannot
Feign states or even a love.

And you can think of any other
Occupation that holds a lie,
And I will tell you

[...] Read more

poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!