XXIII, by Sumit Singh |
mary, my girl, where are you those intimate hands those wasteful eyes those who have no ways to melt down are, for no good, still ringing come and come and your man want it without any hum to let know those eager eyes that soulmate ain't born and my illogical side advocate and, somehow i think logical |
Posted: 2005-10-06 11:00:21 UTC |
This poem has no votes yet. | To vote, you must be logged in. |