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They are coming, getting closer
I try hard but can not awaken

They are coming, getting closer
This is no dream, I was mistaken

They are coming, searching for me
If only I could escape somewhere

They are coming, searching for me
I am trapped in this nightmare

They are coming, stalking now
Who will be there to hear my cry?

They are coming, stalking now
Please help me, I do not want to die

They are coming, they have my scent
All I want is to come out of this dream

They are coming, they have my scent
All is left for me is to scream

They are coming, they are here
copyright Chris Smith 2011
A poet is an ordinary human being
But he always thinks of others’ well being
He often grapples with the problem of rhyming
And aims to post his poem with great timing

A poet usually writes with great passion
And he is a  person of great emotion
He may have certain personal blemishes
But he tries to write with beautiful flourishes

A poet promptly responds to what happens around
Her knowledge of the world is very sound
She lives with the quite common man
But thinks like a superman and supra human

A poet has great social responsibility
He tries to present the reality
He may suffer from vanity
But he is never devoid of humanity
mother and wife are
two knives for a married
man in any country
If they live under the same roof.This is my personal experience
you
The date, time and weather didn't matter,
The amount of letters delivered that morning was a blip,
One minute it was just me,
Then, it was me and you.
POW! Just like that,
And all of a sudden, it felt like i'd never lived,
I mean, not really lived,
Until you crept into my heart,
And kick started it.
How the hell was i survivng before?,
Existing, that's it, just,
Breathing in and out,
Being carried along with all the others,
Monotonous, Pidgeon-like, lemings.......
yay,
ere to for i go
verily as am i
amongst the root of flesh
where layeth dust and soot
in a pleasing rectangle
of symmetry and wood
by the hours' split (and half of that) the wasted marble (her head) discharged, of her oblong thrusting voice, to shamble quickly silence fingers gruffly wringing all the necks of loud and it was also. it was blithe
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