"moping" poems
Oh, to be a poet
one must be so emotional.
Well, no. Not necessarily.
We're only really capable
of understanding feeling,
investigating our emotions.
It doesn't mean we cry all day,
or pass nights in dark rooms moping.
We have lives; come home from work
or get in on a night bus back;
it's from all this experience
that we can draw out fact.
From mundane to extraordinary
we will become inspired.
Our strength is versatility
and life ignights our fires.
So, we do not all have to be
constricted to intensity
-to ponder oh-so seriously
on what it simply means 'to be'.
We can be strong, flirty, or mean
or to the brim with confidence.
For, what does 'to be a poet' mean,
if you cannot explore yourself?
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
Tell me why it seems like the walls are closing in
Tell me why my hopes they're stretched far and thin
Tell me why my dreams still struggle in this fight
Tell me why every time I draw air but it feels so tight.
Tell me why in this turmoil my heart does wallow
Tell me why lifes' lessons by the heapfuls I choke to swallow
Tell me why I'm somewhat free but then again I am not
Tell me why I really do have but I haven't really got.
Tell me why I try to sleep many a restless night
Tell me why I am so afraid of many a fearful fright
Tell me why I still feel the way I have felt before
Tell me why I ask many questions which leaves me broken and sore.
Tell me why so much emotions run amok within me
Tell me why I look yet I do not really see
Tell me why despondence is back; it's here to haunt
Tell me why such uncertainties always beckons to taunt.
Tell me why I want more but I am quite contented
Tell me why I have to accept the path I've very much resented
Tell me why I already know but I still keep on asking
Tell me why it seems like the reasons are in every way lacking.
Tell me why I feel so happy but in fact I am so sad
Tell me why it all seems unfair but I have to be glad
Tell me why I found love in the most unfortunate circumstance
Tell me why to a mournful tune I am stuck in dance.
Tell me why my heart feels engorged but I can't release it all
Tell me why I am so scared but I would still want to fall
Tell me why I feel you close when you're farther than far
Tell me why it seems incredulous that we share the same star.
Tell me why I long to give you more when I can't this instant
Tell me why I can feel better but I seem so resistant
Tell me why sometimes I look up and curse at my luck
Tell me why I refuse to focus on courage that I really should pluck.
Tell me why I lay in bed dreaming of a place far away
Tell me why I find myself moping more and more each day
Tell me why I chose to be naive and in fate I do give trust
Tell me why time and time again it just gets ground to dust.
Tell me why I feel so beaten and weak when I should be strong
Tell me why I am so familiar in a place I don't belong
Tell me why I have to live with a mask on my face
Tell me why I feel like a marionette strung up by lace.
Tell me why I dug deep when these words make me cry
Tell me why the tears still trickle when my eyes are dry
Tell me why I share this when I know you would feel bad
Tell me why I would even spout the words that make you sad.
Tell me why these painful wounds I didn't choose to lick
Tell me why I didn't let them heal but instead I would pick
Tell me why I feel as though I am quite addicted
Tell me why it seems like I enjoy the dark I've inflicted.
Tell me why sometimes I question, the things you see in me
Tell me why you've said it many times but I don't really see
Tell me why I haven't drifted far when I should've a while ago
The reason is you; because you have chosen to love me.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
Cold stoles the coast in geisha voiles
of pawned Atlantic mourning, where
The plangent skirl of larids
carry through the vast exquisite
plains of February emptiness.
Aloft on coronal ruin, she flew
in free form falling, between the spheres
she grew in brightness, and by her stroke,
the moping shale, appeared , as if transformed.
She blessed the face of stained glass saints
hung loud on hallowed walls, From a
palisade of glinting brinks, she
hauled deserted chapels into
parishes of lambent wake
their majesties , reborn.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:47 AM UTC
Moo-Cow-Butterfly
Not a happy lass
Stubby little wings
Superfluous mass
Four long stringy legs
Twirly-whirly tongue
Moo-Cow-Butterfly
Highly strung
Weasel-Emu-Rangutan
Fifty shades of fur
Quite the oddest vertebrate
To naturally occur
Burrows in the jungle
Terrified of heights
Weasel-Emu-Rangutan
Restless nights
Labra-Hippo-Jellyfish
Slimy furry blob
Genetic Engineering
**** poor job
Moping on the seabed
Can’t fetch sticks
Labra-Hippo-Jellyfish
Sink like bricks
Chameleon-Begonias
Origin unknown
Disappear rapidly
As soon as they are sown
Neither here or thereabouts
But somewhere in between
Chameleon-Begonias
Seldom Seen
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
Sometimes I wish it would all go away
The pain and hurt i feel everyday
Never wanting to take off my makeup i hide with-in
I wish that I could fly away to some place to possibly stay a night of yonder
It is there that I would ponder
What I truly desire
I claim to want you all the time
But is the love I have to great for even me to want to find?
I want to never again cry
I want the time to pass me by
go somewhere else while I lay here and die
Show me what i need to learn
As I sit here moping, wishing for your return
Jan 20, 2010
Jan 20, 2010 at 12:58 PM UTC
Carrots moping in the ground
Roots rot and spoiled orange splits-
In cold earth.
Worms squirm freely in and out the sprouts
And wander about without worry or woe,
No place to go but down
Tunneling deeper in Carrot-Worm town.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
I'm sorry that I got saltwater all over your shoulder
and that I clung to you like I was a
jungle animal and you were a tree.
I can't help it if my mascara isn't waterproof
and sticks to my face
making me look
like a raccoon.
And even though my eyes turn a stunning shade of sea-foam,
I hate this.
I hate that I can't breathe.
It's like my chest collapses like a stubborn child,
and the only way it comes back up
is if you feed it all the pain and sorrow you so
willingly vomited out in the first place.
I hate how my face gets all red and wet
and no matter how hard I try,
I won't dry off.
Looking like a raccoon isn't half bad,
but looking like the
reflection of the state your heart is in
is a different story.
I hate that my eyes burn and my face feels
raw from all of the attempts to dry it off.
I hate that when someone asks me, "Are you okay?"
my eyes decide to flood like a broken dam
pouring over innocent living things.
I envy them because at least they are alive.
Really alive.
While I'm just sitting here
moping over what everyone else thinks is nothing.
Well, my nothing is something.
And that something means more to me
than anything that they could ever dream to have.
And I'm sorry I look this way.
I'm even sorry that I feel this way.
But I will never be sorry that what I have has meaning
because that's all I need.
And that's all I've ever needed.
Because I am alright.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
Time changes everything. I’m not going to say that time heals everything, because it doesn’t. Some things never heal.
Have you ever been so broken down that you feel like you’ll never recover? I wish I was here to tell you that you’re wrong.
Life doesn’t wait for anyone. It moves at it’s own pace, throwing obstacles at anyone it pleases. Life is a cruel, nasty, beautiful disaster.
At some point, you have to realize that wishing things were different won’t make them different! You have to realize that moping around hoping someone will come save you is a waste of time because no one can save you.
Only you can save yourself.
So stop waiting for life to come back and pick you up. Pick yourself up off the ground and chase after your life.
During your race to catch up with life, that’s when you’ll come across more hardships. You have to push through them with more force than you think you even have. Keep pushing forward until you’ve caught up with your life.
Now look at your body. Does it look the same as when you started your race? Do you have more or less bruises, scars or burns? The answer is no. You aren’t the same as when you left. But the time that it took you to catch up with your life didn’t “heal” you. Time doesn’t heal anything. Time only changes things.
The time that you took to find your life again, it was changing you, not healing you. You will always have those dark thoughts, the ugly scar from when you fell off the tree, or the memories of your best friend kissing your boyfriend. But those past experiences have shaped you, molded you into the person you’re supposed to be. If time “healed” you, you wouldn’t be you.
-s.s
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
On a fine and sunny morn
On the third or fourth of may
A boggart and a bumblebee
Went to town to play
They met up with a mugglewump
But little did he say
So the boggart and the bumblebee
Bowed and went away
They found their friends the Fuglywhits
And asked them out to tea
They bribed them with jam crumpets
But the Fuglywhits weren’t free
Much dejected did they carry on
The boggart and the bee
The fine and sunny morning
Was filled with little glee
And then the boggart came upon
A wondrous revelation
That put their moping frowns
Into quick cessation
They need no other colleagues
To have collaborations
Two could play together
In satisfied elation
And so the fine associates
Proceeded to be gay
On that fine and sunny morn
On the third or fourth of may
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
To the melody of "Sheng Sheng Man"
I pine and peak
And questless seek
Groping and moping to linger and languish
Anon to wander and wonder, glare, stare and start
Flesh chill'd
Ghost thrilled
With grim dart
And keen canker of rankling anguish.
Sudden a gleam
Of fair weather felt
But fled as fast -- and the ice-cold season stays.
How hard to have these days
In rest or respite, peace or truce.
Sip upon sip of tasteless wine
Is of slight use
To counter or quell
The fierce lash of the evening blast.
The wild geese -- see --
Fly overhead
Ah, there's the grief
That's chief -- grief beyond bearing,
Wild fowl far faring
In days of old you sped
Bearing my true love's tender thoughts to me.
Lo, how my lawn is rife with golden blooms
Of bunched chrysanthemums --
Weary their heads they bow.
Who cares to pluck them now?
While I the casement keep
Lone, waiting, waiting for night
And, as the shades fall
Upon broad leaves, sparse rain-drops drip.
Ah, such a plight
Of grief -- grief unbearable, unthinkable.
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On Sundays I feel a little bit hungover
Last night I was drunk with the thought of you
Laying in your bed in your arms
The warmth spreading in my chest like alcohol
Positively dizzy with lust
Having to leave is like a premature walk of shame
I stumble like I'm lost
But I am far from ashamed
I wake up feeling like I'm still dreaming
I don't even know if I was or
I'm just replaying last night in my mind
In the shower I wash away the smell of your bedsheets,
clear lines dried on my skin that you traced
In the foggy mirror the passionate bruises are clouds
Pouring this need inside of me
And I feel like I'm overflowing, already falling
It can be hard to be alone
When I leave, I feel everything and nothing
I want to open the car door and run into the night
Clutch fist fulls of ice in both hands just to feel
I shiver within your absense
Because you were just right there
And it has effects like sudden withdraw
What I would give for a higher dose
Waiting is something I can't do
I'm eager and impatient and yours
The rest of the week I am moping
Practically ill with longing
Hoping the days will go quick
I am pathetic but truthful
I can't help but feel lovesick
While the world knows no cure
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
Lee was posted up in in usual spot
back by the stacks,
with his phone on life support.
Its umbilical cord was knotted up like a nest,
and held together by electrical tape.
It sat next to his vape
box and a stack of books
about the GED, twenty-fist century
side hustles and back issues of Ebony.
People come in and out of the library
and everyone says hi to Lee,
He is the man to see,
He asks about their lives and gives sage advice –
How you been, my man?
How’s the kids doin’, girl?
How’s married life treatin’ you, my dude?
My man, you gotta do this.
Babygirl, look into that.
Don’t wear your hat like that,
Boy, ya look silly.
Lee lives in a van
that he parks nearby
so he can job-hunt on the free wifi
even when the place is closed.
If you feel sorry for me, don’t
says Lee
I’m the freest now I’ll ever be,
so, don’t you dare take pity on me
I’m doing all I can do,
being all I can be.
Everything’s temporary.
Tomorrow I could be you,
you could be me
we’re just one bad day,
one scratch-off lottery ticket away
from swapping places, my man.
Yeah, I live in that van
parked outside the library
but if you think I’m sad,
you’re thinking wrong,
Won’t see me moping, or doping
floating along
you won’t see me frowning,
or drowning,
singing a sad song.
I’m happy with all that I got
who wouldn’t wanna be in my spot,
I’m The King
of the Library Parking Lot.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:17 PM UTC
Unstable lacks a label
Oh wait, that's why they call me overfocused A.D.D
Silly me forgetting my birthright proclaimed
To be realistic I'm tranquil, when I hold still
I love me and my oddities
I embrace those who are the same
We have enough normality
We need finesse rotating our gravity,
shifting different pockets of energy
Everyday we should be celebrating our individuality
Not moping
Not to mention mini parties are exciting
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:33 AM UTC
You only live once...
More commenly known as YOLO
God, I'm such a nerd...Did I actually just say that?
...well that's new...
Anyways...
Though the song actually doesn't serve this message much good, (but has the capacity to get stuck in my head ALL THE TIME) this message is quite true.
I've been spending far too much time moping around about how my dreams never come true and a bunch of **** that means the world to me now and won't matter later....
I know this isn't poetry, but I wanted to get this out and write something that felt personal... Something that felt like me talking...almost...
So I realized that we really do only live once (duh) and that I don't want to follow the standard little path we're all started on and brainwashed into thinking leads to success. I don't want to have a ton of money but hate what I do. Really, I'd rather just be happy.
When I'm older, I want to look back at my life and be proud of myself. I want to look back and think that I lived a happy life.
So I know I'm young. I know that 20 years from now I won't remember the cold winter night at 2:17 am that I wrote this. I won't remember why I had a crush on that one boy in 8th grade.
But, I will remember being happy, or more commenly unhappy and I don't like being unhappy, no one does.
Something's wrong and I think it's time to stop acting like it's not.
So yeah, I'm young. I've got a long road behind me and an even longer one ahead. I've got a lot of choices and mistakes to make. I've got a lot of things to fix.
I've got a pile of homework to catch up on, and a couple thousand ideas to write down.
It used to be when I grow up, I want to be a doctor.
An astronaut.
A figure skater.
A singer,
A gymnast,
A doctor,
President,
And so on,
But at this point, I want to be happy.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:28 AM UTC
I can't forget you
I wont ever win this fight
Aside from everything you said to me in spite
Erasing you from memory is so **** hard
The one thing that keeps me going is the way you looked at me in my yard
You stared at me that day with love in you eyes
Something I gave you got you hypnotized
I was so naive that day, I couldnt see
All you wanted was to be with me
I hesitated, I was scared, I didn't know what to say
So Instead I gave you a hug, walked inside, and pushed you away
You read me as If I didn't want you, but that was a lie
I wanted to tell you that it wasnt goodbye
But it was too late, you moved on
I am left moping, hoping.
2 years have passed,
you still cross my mind
But like buried treasure, you made yourself hard to find
Its ok now, my heart doesn't hurt as much.
Just know that at one point you had me at the clutch
You had powers over me, now Im immune
One day I will Forget you, one day, Soon
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Butterflies and crows circling the water
Dive
headfirst, closed eyes into the ocean.
Fly.
Rest easy
my
dearest;
how I've missed you
but only the physical things
only the ****** things
I'm objectifying you
(....how rude)
I'm riding on the waves of creation
fixating on free form and relation
with Self
Life is animated now, see the things
that we missed?
Life is kissable
It tastes salty and beautiful like seafoam
and sweet like spring blossoms
I'd offer you my hand again, but
last time you drug me down
This time I'll offer you sand instead,
and castles and sunshine
and smiles.
They're free,
you should try 'em out
sometime, baby.
There's no rush.
The sun will be waiting whenever
you wanna mosey over.
The time for moping is over.
Your misery can be over,
snap
That moment is over
That second is over
Your entire lifetime up to this point
is over
What's that you said about new beginnings?
Finding new things?
Dive in, head first, eyes closed,
towards those things you're seeking.
Don't ever stop
Don't
ever
stop
dreaming.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
I wake up in the morning and think, how rude of me to wake up without warning. Because I'm a grenade. Just look at all of the promises I've made, that I know I can't keep. I try my best to go back to sleep; but I can't.
So I dress myself in yellow caution tape, close the drapes, turn out the light and tell myself no one will find me here but I know they might.
I hang a stop sign on the outside of the door and lock it, put the key in my otherwise empty pocket and scream, "This is a danger zone, don't come near. there is only hazardous waste in here!"
I didn't know you were fearless.
Or that you could break down a door.
Never thought you'd caress me, pick me up off the floor
and say "But, you used to be so full of life."
Those words cut through me like a knife because I remember when butterflies still lived in my stomach and fireflies lived in my eyes.
they're dead now. I'm not surprised.
But, could you maybe bring them back to life?
They haven't taken flight since we slept in the meadow that night.
When I realized, after all those hours laying in a field of flowers,
That I am the flower you disassemble Petal by Petal.
as you chant "she loves me, she loves me not." about some other girl. And I try not to rant, because we've never fought. But I don't want to listen to you tell me how her hair glistens in the sun, or how she bites her lip when you call her Hon. I don't want to hear it. I don't want you to give my biggest fear a name or face I could recognize. I'm just hoping you scrutinized me petal by petal as you disassembled my petals with another girl on your mind. and that's why you're back now. That you don't know how, but your thoughts trailed or that other girl failed you. And while you were moping you thought of me broken, scattered Petal by Petal. And your heart shattered at the thought so you bought a one way ticket and broke down my door. Because you realized while you were moping that you love me and you were stupid before. maybe i'm wrong and you shouldn't have to settle.
I'm just hoping, you'll put me together again Petal by Petal
© copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Why am I not Happy?
I live a good life.
Good Friends,
Good family,
Good everything.
I'm not hungry
I'm not worrying about my medicine
I have a roof over my head.
But why am I not happy then?
Is it because of that whispering thought
Your friends think your annoying
Your parents are tired of you
You're ugly.
And you feel even sadder.
But then that other voice pipes in.
What are you doing!?
Why are you feeling so sorry for yourself?!
And you become guilty
What are you doing?!
You have a house and clothes
Food and medicine
Stop moping around!
And you feel even worse
You start aching
When you walk
And when you breath
And you become tired.
And soon, crying is every day
You can't tell anyone
And soon you feel the worst part
Of this vicious slope
Now you're alone.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
FIVE-AND-TWENTY years have gone
Since old William pollexfen
Laid his strong bones down in death
By his wife Elizabeth
In the grey stone tomb he made.
And after twenty years they laid
In that tomb by him and her
His son George, the astrologer;
And Masons drove from miles away
To scatter the Acacia spray
Upon a melancholy man
Who had ended where his breath began.
Many a son and daughter lies
Far from the customary skies,
The Mall and Eades's grammar school,
In London or in Liverpool;
But where is laid the sailor John
That so many lands had known,
Quiet lands or unquiet seas
Where the Indians trade or Japanese?
He never found his rest ashore,
Moping for one voyage more.
Where have they laid the sailor John?
And yesterday the youngest son,
A humorous, unambitious man,
Was buried near the astrologer,
Yesterday in the tenth year
Since he who had been contented long.
A nobody in a great throng,
Decided he would journey home,
Now that his fiftieth year had come,
And "Mr. Alfred' be again
Upon the lips of common men
Who carried in their memory
His childhood and his family.
At all these death-beds women heard
A visionary white sea-bird
Lamenting that a man should die;
And with that cry I have raised my cry.
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Looking high , staring down
Have you ever wander ?
Falling cry, having to deny
Have ever surrender ?
Being near , missing dear
Have you ever yearned so closer ?
Dancing memories on the melodies of your charming hearty beats ,
Playing the old fascinating blessings from the moment you meet
Catching hope
Spreading happiness ,
Defeating mope
Hugging heartiness
Holding a pure blessed heart within your soul ,
Shedding innocent tears , hoping for a merry call
Marvelous beauty stands there in your hearts ,
Sunnshine , moonlight drops mingle as pretty parts
Rosy buds of honey scents and outstanding roses ,
Radiating fascination and admiration
A thousand pure sights from deep inside your innocence,
Landing with spiritual wings on the lane of happiness
There appeared the glittering fluttering butterfly ,
Lightening your way through the moping way
And you stand there and say :
Oh dear flying beauty , vanish all the darkness away
Send me faith and happiness everyday
Go along and watch me pray ,
Faithful grateful trills every single day ,
That everything will be perfectly okay ...
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
The careful moon maunders through the glass ceiling
on these long nights
when I try to alchemize my visions into ships.
I imagine the mist moping among the larches—
the dewy bark that wakes,
looking for shadows of loggers in the grey.
On cold nights like this I sleep beneath a sheet, sweating,
dreaming of China’s violet sky exploding with hues
of a butterfly’s paper wings.
The summer air crackles above the pale girl’s tent—
a counterfeit ankh hangs between
her naked, sagging *******
and she sees the future in the reflection of her eye
on an Opinel’s blade—her iris wheezing into shapes.
She tells me there are gales ahead
like ones in schoolbook etchings of Poseidon.
Boys will choke on salt, she says,
or the ice will kiss the little princes to sleep.
But she coos how they look like dancers at a ball.
How many boys will be lost? I ask the girl.
All of them, she says with ***** on her breath,
but this won’t stop you, will it?
In my favorite dream yolk sizzles on a cast iron as mother sings.
My older sister laughs, cheeks full of sourdough and jam,
and father’s wet hair drips onto his paper—
the ink of little letters smearing into bare branches.
The dream helps me forget that rain never ends where I wake,
where guilt’s proboscis feeds on hardened veins.
To whomever’s my son, please don’t put me in an elegy
where the memory of me will rot like wet wood.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Get up and move the hell on
He doesn't mean you any good
He was just ******* up all of your energy and making you feel bad about yourself
He was just there to pass the time away
He was just there so that you didn't feel lonely
You knew the love left a long time ago
So what are you holding on to?
Regrets? Pain?
What's the point of moping around when he already moved on?
You better pull your head up and remain strong
You're better than this
You're stronger than this
You deserve so much better
You will find your better
Stop holding on to the past
Let it go at last...
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
Johnny had a golden head
Like a golden mop in blow,
Right and left his curls would spread
In a glory and a glow,
And they framed his honest face
Like stray sunbeams out of place.
Long and thick, they half could hide
How threadbare his patched jacket hung;
They used to be his Mother's pride;
She praised them with a tender tongue,
And stroked them with a loving finger
That smoothed and stroked and loved to linger.
On a doorstep Johnny sat,
Up and down the street looked he;
Johnny did not own a hat,
Hot or cold tho' days might be;
Johnny did not own a boot
To cover up his muddy foot.
Johnny's face was pale and thin,
Pale with hunger and with crying;
For his Mother lay within,
Talked and tossed and seemed a-dying,
While Johnny racked his brains to think
How to get her help and drink,
Get her physic, get her tea,
Get her bread and something nice;
Not a penny piece had he,
And scarce a shilling might suffice;
No wonder that his soul was sad,
When not one penny piece he had.
As he sat there thinking, moping,
Because his Mother's wants were many,
Wishing much but scarcely hoping
To earn a shilling or a penny,
A friendly neighbor passed him by
And questioned him: Why did he cry?
Alas! his trouble soon was told:
He did not cry for cold or hunger,
Though he was hungry both and cold;
He only felt more weak and younger,
Because he wished so to be old
And apt at earning pence or gold.
Kindly that neighbor was, but poor,
Scant coin had he to give or lend;
And well he guessed there needed more
Than pence or shillings to befriend
The helpless woman in her strait,
So much loved, yet so desolate.
One way he saw, and only one:
He would--he could not--give the advice,
And yet he must: the widow's son
Had curls of gold would fetch their price;
Long curls which might be clipped, and sold
For silver, or perhaps for gold.
Our Johnny, when he understood
Which shop it was that purchased hair,
Ran off as briskly as he could,
And in a trice stood cropped and bare,
Too short of hair to fill a locket,
But jingling money in his pocket.
Precious money--tea and bread,
Physic, ease, for Mother dear,
Better than a golden head:
Yet our hero dropped one tear
When he spied himself close shorn,
Barer much than lamb new born.
His Mother throve upon the money,
Ate and revived and kissed her son:
But oh! when she perceived her Johnny,
And understood what he had done
All and only for her sake,
She sobbed as if her heart must break.
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Peace and quite.
Yeah right lets be honest
Kids are shooting
Parents don't care
Baby in a box on the street free to keep.
This generation has no decency
Show some respect, show some love
For the world you were born in
Throwing it all away
Just like your responsibility.
Stop moping around school like your the only one with issues at home
Grow up and realize, life ***** us all.
And you'll get over it once you accept it, and move on.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC