Your suppose to live on your knees,
I'm going die on my feet
no small feats,
treat this country like a playground for the meek
underpriveleged ghosts of a distant reality
the only formality is a tip of the hat,a blown kiss from a balchoney
bliss is the morning,the afternoon & the evening I treat like alchemy
comfort is the feeling im blessed with,those suddle reminders your chest dances
a normal person simpy is a recreation of for instances,
frightened of resentment...still wishing it was yesterday and dreading the woes of this galaxys infancy...
there are beautiful women in every part of the earth and theyll break your gentle heart into perfectly calculated refinancing
but to never try is to accept losing
somthing in which I cannot do
destiny rides on the lips of my smile,quite righteous acclimations of self in what is considered a down time in the eyes of the young bastards behind the years in my life,
quite unimaginable how the thought of suicide is even of mind
but I understand,quite well,how a heart gathers fire
how mind dances a high wire
how get rich quick skeems breed passionite lies and deceiteful smiles
oh good greif son,
FREE YOUR MIND
and remember the golden rule
SILENCE.
Dying on feet requires hanging self very low. I like 'how a heart gathers fire' quite rather. Thanks for the poem, Mr. WSB.
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