Blue Box
I've written you thousands of things
That you will never see
But somehow I must express my love
To make me feel less and more empty
So all my love,
Is in a blue box beneath my bed
Where it will remain untouched
Until we are both dead.
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 |
| Dangerous Waters | 1 | 04/25/2012 |
| Blue Box | 0 | 04/25/2012 |
| Love? | 0 | 04/25/2012 |
| A Song | 1 | 04/25/2012 |
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