Blocked
Why do I even bother to try,
In order for words to come I have to pry;
I could sit here for hours on end,
But all I'd be doing is playing pretend.
Rhyming does nto happen at the snap of a finger,
Instead my thoughts just tend to linger;
I'd love to sit here and vent of my day,
But in my head is where it'll have to stay.
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 |
| Blocked | 0 | 11/08/2010 |
| Time of My Life | 1 | 05/09/2010 |
| You Belong With Me | 0 | 04/26/2010 |
| Stupidity | 2 | 01/21/2010 |
| Wondering Why | 0 | 01/21/2010 |
| Missed Calls | 1 | 01/21/2010 |
| Unclear | 0 | 01/21/2010 |
| Guardian Angel | 2 | 01/21/2010 |
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