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leonard-steven-declanPoems
I write stories of people, Who disappear, Of the closest friends, That were never near, Of the heartfelt hope, That was never here, Of the crimson road, That's, never clear. I spent my money, On diamond rings, Liquor, hard drugs, Menial things, Things to replace, What I'd lost, I didn't care, About the cost, The hate in my heart, A cumbersome load, And a heavy soul, Yet to be sold, Off out in the night, I began to ride, And in the pale moonlight, I had to confide, Life is more, Than I'll ever know, Only a fool, Would let himself go So still I ride, to this day Trying to find, My own way.
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Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 4:56 AM UTC
Ghosts
I write stories of people, Who disappear, Of the closest friends, That were never near, Of the heartfelt hope, That was never here, Of the crimson road, That's, never clear. I spent my money, On diamond rings, Liquor, hard drugs, Menial things, Things to replace, What I'd lost, I didn't care, About the cost, The hate in my heart, A cumbersome load, And a heavy soul, Yet to be sold, Off out in the night, I began to ride, And in the pale moonlight, I had to confide, Life is more, Than I'll ever know, Only a fool, Would let himself go So still I ride, to this day Trying to find, My own way.
leonard-steven-declan
Written by
leonard-steven-declan
American
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 4:56 AM UTC
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