To many times I have failed to understand. What possibly could be wrong? Is it me who has drawn upon my mirror and do not see an image anymore? I don't see the evidence that remains. Why is this so? Questions I ask cause no one but me can answer them. Why do we ask things that only we can answer? Maybe I'am behind the time. Time that I set but could not accomplish. It's like a great author that couldn't complete the work of his own. This is a book that could not possibly be completed. Only time can tell. All I want is a sip of your time. Is that to much to ask for. My wine is not as it use to be, it has turned into a rich lathering taste. A taste that can only ripen a fruit that has gone bad. Now I must change the act that developed in the mind only an act that caused the mother to cry and the lame to walk. I failed to listen to myself.
Goldie
 700
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Listen
CATEGORY
just different
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OTHER POEMS WRITTEN BY Goldie
ListenTo many times I have failed to understand. What possibly could be wrong? Is it me who has drawn upon my mirror and do not see an image anymore? I don't see the evidence that remains. Why is this so? Questions I ask cause no one but me can answer them. Why do we ask things that only we can answer? Maybe I'am behind the time. Time that I set but could not accomplish. It's like a great author that couldn't complete the work of his own. This is a book that could not possibly be completed. Only time can tell. All I want is a sip of your time. Is that to much to ask for. My wine is not as it use to be, it has turned into a rich lathering taste. A taste that can only ripen a fruit that has gone bad. Now I must change the act that developed in the mind only an act that caused the mother to cry and the lame to walk. I failed to listen to myself.  |
Ink Now since the ink is dry let me begin to read: |
YoungI would like to take time out to define young... From the moment the eyes introduced themselves to the world a new image was born. I reflect upon the world but yet I have went "ghost" to the ones that see the world as a precious object. We rain down our terror upon the ground we walk on like confetti. Since we all throw stones instead of pounds of kindness the world is misunderstood and there-for it is still an infant. Because of this we are still children and have yet reached our full potential. We are what we make and show to one another. But if we are all infants what can we really show? |