ON DEATH
The gift of life comes easy,
we accept it with a nod,
and never stop to thank
an illusive faceless GOD.
Life can be going smoothly,
then DEATH rears it's ugly head,
and even the best of people,
somehow end up dead.
Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
Unknown Source
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| ANGEL BRIGHT | 0 | 08/08/2009 |
| THROUGH MY EYES | 1 | 08/07/2009 |
| A RIDDLE | 0 | 08/07/2009 |
| ALONE | 0 | 08/06/2009 |
| ON DEATH | 0 | 08/05/2009 |
| LIFE IS | 1 | 08/05/2009 |
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