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| Not So Long Ago As I sit in this house, In the same spot not so long ago, Where I had sat, Doing so many things I loved, With the few I chose to love. But now they are all gone forever, Down different paths they had gone, Not so long ago. And those I loved Were the only ones I loved. So now I am alone, Sitting in this house, In the same spot I had sat in, Not so long ago, While a tear rolls down My once happy and gleaming cheek, Onto faded pictures of the past, Still hoping that what once was, Would happen once more. The Poet Still The poet's hand flies across the page, For he's filled with love and not rage. His heart doth guide the furious quill, And while he writes heaven sits still. With one brief moment, the candles fade, He checks his work, to see what he's made. A look of exhuberance turns to one of ghast, His last quill broken, this poem his last. Now instead of heaven, the poet's hand is still, A cruel displeasure clarifies to real. The poet sucked dry, he stands with a sigh, For what he's known now gone, tears in his eye. Mouth of Pity Flowing down through the mouth of pity, The slow destruction of the golden city, Handouts alleve the suffering for short, Yet thievery and drunkedness is to which they resort. The screaming, the yelling, then the misunderstood, Of self-supportiveness to produce, they should. This melancholic disillusion sparks the fire, Now try to strip from this tattered and worn attire. Now through the hasteful mouth of pity, Only with a realization of lack of company, Can an outstretchedand an open heart, To strengthen these bondds, to make our feelings tart. |