My Rose
A rose once grow here,
now nothing remains
but roots and veins
bleeding and left
for the wind.
My rose is nothing
but dust in the wind
and yet
I loved My rose
to
The End
My Rose
Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.
Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.
Title | Comments | Submitted |
---|---|---|
Title | Comments | Submitted |
Lyrics of life and love | 0 | 02/01/2014 |
The 5 rooms of living | 0 | 02/01/2014 |
Forgotten wish's | 0 | 02/01/2014 |
A Goth's Reflection | 0 | 01/31/2014 |
My Rose | 0 | 01/31/2014 |
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