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xBLacKObSeSSioNx
Apr 19th, 2004, 03:38 PM
Tell me what you think, I wrote it myself...

Covered in silence
And wondering why,
The emotion is there
But you’re too scared to cry,
Your healer is still undefined...
Deeper and deeper
Your heart fades to black,
Take a look around
At the love that you lack,
The emotion is there
But you’re too scared to cry,
Your healer is still undefined...
Further you plunge
Into the ground,
The voices command you
In surround sound,
The emotion is there
But you’re too scared to cry,
Your healer is still undefined...
Waiting for the day
You’ll be able to release,
All of your thoughts
And rest in peace,
The emotion is gone
You can no longer cry,
And it’s because your healer has left you behind...
Pub Lover
Apr 19th, 2004, 03:40 PM
Oh No... :goth
xBLacKObSeSSioNx
Apr 19th, 2004, 04:13 PM
wuts the problem? It has absolutely nothing to do with Ann, so y aren't u happy???
BlueOatmeal
Apr 19th, 2004, 11:18 PM
GODAMMIT! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL ALIVE? PLZ DIE KTHX
Matt Harty
Apr 21st, 2004, 10:46 AM
wuts the problem? It has absolutely nothing to do with Ann, so y aren't u happy???

NO, IT'S ALL ABOUT ANN
ArrowX
Apr 24th, 2004, 02:41 AM
DRINK SOME BLEACH! DRINK SOME BLEACH! DRINK SOME BLEACH! DRINK SOME BLEACH!
kellychaos
Apr 24th, 2004, 12:24 PM
Your pain ... runs deep ... share it with me.
Spectre X
Apr 24th, 2004, 01:37 PM
This thread is full of homps.

Except Pub, Oatmeal and Matt.
Pub Lover
Apr 24th, 2004, 04:39 PM
Maybe I want to be a 'homp'. :rolleyes
Spastic Colon
Apr 24th, 2004, 05:55 PM
How about we play the game "Drink what's under the sink." You go first. :)
Ghost of Fraiser
Apr 26th, 2004, 08:20 AM
The name of the poem was "Monsters under my Bed" by Jamie Rints, Age 12
kahljorn
May 29th, 2004, 04:20 PM
All your life was a lie that's why your soul cries sick and blue torn ligaments renew the perturbed silence rotting, wholesome enquiries based on your perceptual grief.. perspectives eat your eyes like a diary fruit farming bush, you write your secrets down and nobody gives a damn except glaring fussilades of your own self terror. Crashing down upon y ourself like deep blue darkened seas, depressurizing the ampitated parts with bitter sorrow--filled with some chance of cordial happiness and gastric decay of space.
Mr. Vagiclean
May 29th, 2004, 09:59 PM
YEAH TELL EM HOW'S IT'S DONE :lol