My Love, My Love
This life I call my own is not,
but a glamor of death and rot.
You think me kind just and fair,
the truth is I don't even care.
When I am gone and in my grave,
don't mourn for me i couldn't be saved.
such beauty in a tiny face,
should be fringed with gold and feather lace.
within it a smile to melt stone hearts to water,
and eyes that turn men to nothing more than cannon fauder.
with lips that make this seem surreal,
they make it hard not to want there satin feel.
a vision of beauty sitting there,
and i the pray caught in this beautys snare.
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2 comments:
just so you know the first verse of this poem was ripped off of another poem called "misconceptions"
The whole poem goes
This life I call my own is not,
but a glamour of death and rot,
you think me kind just and fair, the truth is I don't even care,
when I'm gone and in my grave,
don't mourn for me I couldn't be save.
The cursed are blessed compared
to me, the blind to rot the dead to see.
my soul is rotten to the core,
a longer life to bear some more.
I'm trapped outside my feebled mind,
I know the key I cannot find,
I curse I scream I beg I moan,
but the crowds tell me I'm alone.
One spark of hope I find in this,
that in death there is but quite bliss.
this poem was written by me several years ago and altho I am flattered that somebody chose to use part of it I and sadden that no credit was given. esp when this poem is a word for word copy of the first several lines of my poem
here is a link of when I first wrot this poem down on the internet you may need to creat an account don't worry it is free this is to the mod of this blog
http://reignofblood.net/blogs.php?step=view&blogid=5783
I also left my E-mail in my last post if you have any questions
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