manuscriptx
New Member
Just because people don't see them, doesn’t mean they don't exist.
Flowers ripple their flesh; colored rains are white and blue mist.
The night was sultry, the air was cold,
the foot was massaged, the man was old.
The pain was relieved, the woman was satisfied,
the man was angry, the baby was crying.
I never had anything, I never wanted more.
My name is Tom, his name was Al Gore.
Poems have rules, mine has none,
puffy clouds are white, this poem's all done.
A stanza to add, a syllable to retain,
baby anuses to feed, my logic is insane.
Let this run onward, too much to bear,
worms die in the ground, birds fly in the air.
Flowers ripple their flesh; colored rains are white and blue mist.
The night was sultry, the air was cold,
the foot was massaged, the man was old.
The pain was relieved, the woman was satisfied,
the man was angry, the baby was crying.
I never had anything, I never wanted more.
My name is Tom, his name was Al Gore.
Poems have rules, mine has none,
puffy clouds are white, this poem's all done.
A stanza to add, a syllable to retain,
baby anuses to feed, my logic is insane.
Let this run onward, too much to bear,
worms die in the ground, birds fly in the air.
