2/27/11
My heart is cold
Feel the drift
The beat of stone
It only slips
With a spark
A flame is born
Melt away the dark
This type is scarred
Pretend it's real
Love me, hate
Turn me into steel.
If I could relate,
then I can feel
If only fate,
had eyes and ears.
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.
T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| Shadow | 0 | 10/04/2011 |
| Deep Thought | 0 | 10/04/2011 |
| Something Uncommon | 1 | 10/04/2011 |
| Short Story -10/1/11- | 0 | 10/04/2011 |
| Alive in My Soul | 0 | 10/04/2011 |
| When I Cry | 1 | 10/04/2011 |
| Last Wall -9/28/11- | 0 | 10/04/2011 |
| My Sanity -10/16/10- | 2 | 10/03/2011 |
| 6/8/11 | 0 | 10/03/2011 |
| 2/27/11 | 0 | 10/03/2011 |
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.