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Pencil |
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24 Mar 2008 |
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Like the toll of a funeral bell, I know there will be hell, when the man of the house gets home. An explosion of stress will roll in the door and my head hears an inward groan,I silently ask myself which task , he will critique as he marches past, and i would much prefer alone. Lets just be true, there is nothing I can do that is right, or so I am told, how tired I am of hearing him slam, me, my work, and all that I am.
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Desertkid |
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29 Mar 2008 |
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Pencil, I read this and it sounded like you were making up a pretty good poem until I wondered if what you were saying was true?? Or am I being naive? Tell me. Maybe you are "writer material"??
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Pencil |
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24 Mar 2008 |
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 14 day's, 2 weeks, seeming years, The lectures continued to pound, trying to hold back childish tears, I try, a smile, so then he continues to hound. I'm a geek, and a loser and that's the nice part, the mean profane one, rips me apart. Control freaks these days seem to abound, at least thats what i seem to have found.cant find enough misery to occupy your time, doesn't give you the right to ruin mine.
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Pencil |
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24 Mar 2008 |
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 Roll on with your self, Mr. Bug up your but, theres nobody home, and that's me. Your filthy mouth and rotten tongue, just got to set me free. Can't take any more of your verbal abuse, for a man like you doesn't make an excuse. No need when you are always right, and all you want to do is fight.Until you know just what you do, I want nothing more of you.
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When The Bad Times Roll
When The Bad Times Roll 
