Wicked stranger
He comes in the morning
When the pots and dishes are filled
He sits to watch them eat
Once they attempts to start
He shakes it off their hands
And mock them “Failure”
He watch as they fade away
With their loved ones
Soaking their pillow in tears and pains
They ask him a lot of questions
That he don’t care to answer
Tell me, what sort of creature are you?
Why do you choose to dwell
In a place where you are not welcomed?
Just for you to cause them
These sweet agonies.
Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.
T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| The masochistic treat of Niger | 0 | 12/15/2011 |
| Grimmer of Life | 0 | 12/13/2011 |
| Life | 2 | 07/31/2009 |
| PEN | 2 | 07/29/2009 |
| Storm's Over | 2 | 07/29/2009 |
| Tears | 1 | 07/27/2009 |
| Native | 5 | 08/12/2009 |
| Kite | 0 | 07/27/2009 |
| Lost in desert | 3 | 07/23/2009 |
| Stolen | 0 | 07/27/2009 |
| Doubts | 1 | 07/17/2009 |
| Return to me | 0 | 07/17/2009 |
| Silent Night | 0 | 07/17/2009 |
| Wicked stranger | 0 | 07/17/2009 |
| Moments of silence | 2 | 06/19/2009 |
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