thicker than my thumb.
With words, and soul,
that answer to no one.
Took me on a plane
passed the ruined ancient Rome.
Took me on a boat,
on a bus,
on a train and home.
Oh my god,
oh my god,
what have i done?
I mistook you
for old and worn;
set you on a shelf
to read elsewhere.
Read the words,
in bold above,
Classics, Please
Handle with Care.
Oh my god,
oh my god,
what have i done?
I have searched
the aisles
for the place i remember;
with yet to find
the shelf that contains
what i left there
But this i know.
Contentment
is a myth, when without
the one you treasure.
Contentment
is a myth, when without
the one you treasure.
1 comment:
if that was a poem written by you titled jack london, you are getting ridiculous.
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